


Feed Me Fiction

by ChaosApple42



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Deviates From Canon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2019-10-01 19:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17249693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaosApple42/pseuds/ChaosApple42
Summary: "Illusion, you feed me fiction. I'm still begging you, please don't go."





	1. On The Prowl

It turns out, panther meat is kind of tough. It’s lean and has a strong flavor that Murphy has never tasted before but someone with a bigger vocabulary across the fire is calling “gamey”. Murphy is used to the shit food of lockup, so he’s not trying to complain. At least it’s hot, solid protein. His stomach had been rumbling, and now it wasn’t. Might as well be grateful.

Murphy is used to being hungry- he suspects it’s one of the reasons he’s so compact. People have called him small all his life, although he mostly made up for it with frustrated spite and a quick tongue. You can’t grow to your full potential when your mom is drinking away all your rations, after all.

The symptoms of prolonged hunger are familiar but, as always, decidedly unwelcome. Feeling the gnawing ache in his stomach lessen with every dry bite of the big cat would have been something to celebrate…if only he could stop reliving the shit show of bringing it down.

_It’s over._ He keeps telling himself. He risks a glance to his right. _It’s over. He’s fine._

Bellamy is sulking. He pulls it off well in the firelight- hair hanging down just a bit and casting a shadow over his brown eyes, strong nose in profile, full lips pouting just a bit… Definitely sulking. Ok, fine, that’s probably not the word he’d prefer Murphy to use, but it feels right. Clarke and Finn pulling that stunt and taking food out of turn had really upset him, as the bruise forming on some kid’s face proved. No one else had tried to step out of line after that, at least. But it had still soured the triumphant mood for the ebony haired young man.

Murphy hadn’t had a good mood to ruin, although Finn’s arrogance and casual fucking dismissal made his blood boil. His heart still hasn’t entirely stopped beating out of his chest from watching that panther stalk down his… Leader? Reluctant and unlikely older friend? Gorgeous unattainable god out of those stupid legends he was always referencing?

Murphy winces around a mouthful of panther meat. Best not to dwell on that weird and uncomfortable thought.

Most of the 100 are already done eating. As Murphy well knew, a long hunger led to a short appetite. The juvenile delinquents loiter around small fires, gossiping and laughing and generally celebrating. And why not? Against all odds here they were, bellies full now, still alive.

_Still alive._

Bellamy hasn’t really touched his food. Not that Murphy is checking up on him like an anxious girlfriend or anything, fretfully flicking his eyes to the charred remnants of pussy cat impaled on a rough stick in Bellamy’s large hands.

_The guy’s not going to keep up that physique if he doesn’t take care of himself._

Murphy swallows and shakes his head. Bellamy is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He’ll eat when he’s hungry. Speaking of girlfriends… the brunette bimbo that Bellamy had apparently banged in the dropship earlier in the day is sauntering over to where the two partners are standing. She’s at least mostly clothed now, thank god, although the eyes she’s making at the black haired guard impersonator could probably be considered indecent.

Murphy can’t really articulate what the issue is, but he doesn’t like her. He definitely doesn’t like the way she marches right up to their fearless but preoccupied leader and sticks her pert little nose right in his neck and smiles that bright but clueless smile as she wraps her arms around his waist.

“C’mon Bell, it’s getting late.” She giggles into his neck.

Murphy scowls. He can’t help it- there’s just something about her. Is it her voice? It certainly seems particularly grating. And besides, he wasn’t done with the male Blake. They have food tonight, and that’s great, but they really should be talking about their next meal. What’s the next step? A hunting party? Bellamy might even have a plan already. He seems like a generally capable guy, always ready to take on the next challenge. He’d got onto the top secret dropship with a gun, all to save his sister. So definitely capable, and caring, and strong, and determined… All around a great catch.

_And probably the key to our food shortage problem_. He reminds himself. It’s important to stay on task, after all. Murphy had wanted to put that conversation off for a few more minutes though. He had been enjoying sitting here with the older boy, slowly calming down after the earlier scare, eating their hard won meal in silence. The food issue is just another thing to add to Bellamy’s list of worries. It’s clear that he has a lot on his mind, no doubt brainstorming ways to keep the Hundred safe and supplied, and probably thinking a hundred other things Murphy could never guess. This was just one more thing to add to that growing list.

But, looking at the way this girl is cuddling up to him, Murphy supposes it can wait. Let the guy have some fun. He looks like he needs it, if the furrowed lines on his forehead are any indication.

He’s about to politely excuse himself- which for Murphy means not making a crude joke about visiting pound town and instead silently finding a reason to leave- but Bellamy’s voice stops him.

“You’re right, it is.” He affirms lightly, disengaging from the girl’s embrace and taking a step away as he turns to face her. “You should turn in. Get some rest. Never know what the ground will throw at us in the morning.”

The dismissal is pretty clear, although the girl keeps smiling that vapid smile.

“Should I wait for you in your tent?” She asks.

Murphy doesn’t know what Bellamy’s problem is, why he’s turning down an easy lay, but damned if he isn’t prepared to be a great wingman. Whatever it takes to get this girl to go away.

“Blake.” He breaks in, the surname slipping easily off his tongue in his haste to interject. “We should, uh, talk.”

“Right.” Bellamy agrees immediately, taking another step away from the girl to try and get his point across. “Lots of important decisions to make. Defense layouts to draw up. That sort of thing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The girl looks vaguely puzzled and disappointed, the corners of her stupid smile turning down, but nods and walks away, towards a group of teens milling around another part of the clearing.

Bellamy audibly exhales when the girl is out of earshot, his shoulders relaxing from around his ears and his hands smoothing down his pant legs.

It makes Murphy glad that one of the leaders of this ragtag bunch of kids is comfortable around him, can relax around him like he can’t around others. It’s good to have friends in high places. Maybe it will help keep him alive down here.

_Sure, it’s all about survival, and not the warm feeling in the pit of your stomach when he’s around._

Murphy bites the inside of his cheek roughly. It tastes a bit like blood but that voice in his head stops and he can focus on Bellamy, who’s turning towards him, soft around the edges as his relief bleeds through.

“Have you seen Atom?”

Murphy shrugs, discarding his newly bare stick onto the ground.

“Wasn’t he supposed to be watching little sis?”

“Yeah, and I haven’t seen either of them for a while.” Murphy digests this new information, and his panther meat, calmly. It’s not much of a secret around camp that Atom and Octavia are hot for each other. If they’ve snuck off together… well, Murphy can’t really blame them. Down here on the ground, they could die at any moment. There are too many threats to count, most of them unfamiliar. Might as well make the most of each moment, right?

He’s not about to say that to a pissed off big brother.

Bellamy smiles at him. It’s predatory.

“Want to take a walk?”

Murphy isn’t about to turn down that offer. His other options are mingling with the masses or finding his place to crash for the night. People suck and he’s not ready to set up his small bedroll and sleep. Every time he looks away from Bellamy he thinks he sees a panther out of the corner of his eye, stalking them.

_We’re fine. We’re still alive. We ate the goddamn cat and Bellamy and I are fine._

“Yeah, I’m sure we can find them. Want me to grab a few guys?”

“No. I think we can handle it. We make a good team.”

The praise is unexpected and Murphy doesn’t know how to respond. He swallows against the lump in his throat and nods, dusting off his hands and taking a step away from Bellamy and towards the trees, away from Bellamy who is still smiling that predatory smile that makes the hair on the back of Murphy’s neck stand up.

_Maybe in some other world, this moonlit stroll would be romantic._ He thinks to himself a few minutes later as he and his new friend stealthily prowl through the woods in search of said friend’s errant sister.

_Sister!_ The idea of having a sibling, of not being totally alone in the world, is so foreign and so socially taboo that it’s hard to resist asking prying questions about it. It’s not really in Murphy’s nature to keep his mouth shut, but maybe during the hunt for that same sister, who is probably bumping uglies with Atom even as her brother stumbles ever closer, isn’t the best time. Murphy can resist temptation for Bellamy’s sake.

But honestly, having a sister… or even a brother… having someone else in your life besides your drunk mother and the ghost of your floated father… someone to confide in and have each other’s back… it’s a nice thought.

_Unless you get stuck with a psycho little sister like Octavia_. He muses, trying hard not to stumble over roots while distractedly checking out Bellamy’s ass. It’s nice to have an ass there to check out, considering…

_He WAS almost kitten chow_ …

The memory immediately makes Murphy’s throat seize.

It had all happened so fast. One second he was hurriedly working at the knots tying an unconscious Jasper to the tree, trying not to listen as that asshole Finn rushed him along, the next there was a huge feline sprinting at them through the undergrowth.

His eyes had gone to Bellamy, who was on the ground nearest to the animal and exposed. And apparently without a gun, considering that damned Prince had stolen it out of his waistband. The privileged bastard was lucky he wasn’t a terrible shot, because if he’d missed… if that wild beast had crossed just a few more feet of open space…

Well, fuck. It hadn’t happened. Bellamy was fine.

_We’re fine. We’re alive_.

Looking up, he caught another glance of a great butt only partially disguised by loose fitting guard issue pants.

_We’re together._

Maybe it’s not romantic. But that’s not really his style anyway.

The two of them don’t take long to find Atom, and Octavia by extension. Bellamy stops in his tracks and stares for a long moment, obviously unhappy to discover his sweet sister straddling someone. Murphy’s just grateful that all their clothes are on.

“Atom. Come on.” Bellamy’s voice is gruff. “We’ve got first watch.”

Atom picks himself up off the ground, casting a brief glance at Octavia and her apprehensive frown, but follows, eyes downcast. It’s clear on everyone’s faces that he’s royally screwed.

A half hour later, he’s strung up in a tree.

Murphy doesn’t want to take all the credit, even if it was his idea. Bellamy would probably argue and say it was the most obvious solution and they all would have arrived at it eventually but screw that, Murphy thought of it first and that’s what counts. Couldn’t leave him on the ground, didn’t have someplace to stash him, so up in the trees he goes. Far enough outside camp that he doesn’t disturb anyone, of course. Far enough that Octavia can’t hear his yells.

Maybe it’s harsh. But as Bellamy says, “I won’t be disobeyed.”

It’s terrible that Murphy shivers at those words, that his pants get tight and his mouth gets dry, that his skin prickles with goosebumps and he’s suddenly aware of how beautiful Bell looks in firelight, the burning torch making his eyes look black and bottomless. His tone leaves no room for dissent.

Together, the group turns away.

“Guys!” Atom shouts, panicked. “Bellamy! Guys!”

They ignore him.

It’s a bit of a walk through the dark woods but the torches provide enough light to guide them home.

_Home. How strange that it’s already home._

Maybe it’s not so strange though. That cold sterile Skybox was where most of them had lived for the last year, two, three… but it wasn’t home. This here, the ground, the vast and open forests andstill unseen deserts and oceans, was where their home lay. The dropship, where they unfurled their bedrolls each night, that was home. The tent he shared with M’bege, that was home.

The group split up in the trees nearest the dropship, extinguishing their torches, all of them going to their posted stations for watch. Now that they knew Grounders were alive and thriving, in these very woods, it was imperative that they keep up a guard. Bellamy hadn’t been totally lying to that affectionate brunette who couldn’t take a hint. There are still all sorts of things that needed to be planned out just for the defense of the camp, like posting guards around the clock at the dropship entrance and building a wall out of debris and natural resources and organizing patrols and having someone available to feed the fires so they never went out. Just thinking about it made Murphy’s head hurt. And that was all just the tip of a very large iceberg.

Bellamy and Murphy make it to their post- well, Murphy’s post, but he’s not about to send the dark haired man away- before they stop, shaking with silent laughter. One shared look and they lose control, dissolving into giggles that would frankly be embarrassing if anyone in camp heard. But it’s just the two of them.

_We’re fine. We’re alive. We’re together_.

Suddenly that knowledge is so sweet, so ecstatic, that he just has to laugh. At their fate, at Atom’s current predicament, at how ridiculous and hopeless things are. How have 100 juvenile offenders become all that exists of civilized life on earth? How are they going to survive? They have to eat, they have to drink clean water, they have to police the camp, they have to find or make weapons, they have to defend against an inexplicable enemy… it’s too much. It’s just too much.

And so Murphy laughs. And apparently the brown eyed Blake is in on the joke because he’s laughing too and so that makes it all kind of ok.

Eventually, they recover from their fit.

“Listen…” Bellamy starts, looking seemingly anywhere but directly at the shorter boy, “Thanks for helping me out with Sarah.”

It takes Murphy a minute to understand what the hell he’s talking about.

“Oh! Girl from this morning, the one who was all up on your junk after our victorious feast?”

Bellamy laughs, presumably at his phrasing, but nods.

“Yes, she has a name, it’s Sarah. Nice girl, very…”

Murphy has no idea how Bellamy plans to end that sentence but he can guess. Dumb? Vapid? Thoughtless? Clingy? Overly affectionate?

“.…athletic.”

That startles another laugh out of Murphy. This one is brief. He really doesn’t want to think about Bellamy with some stupid bimbo. He can be happy for the guy for getting some tail but that doesn’t mean he needs details.

And he is happy for Bellamy. Of course he is. How else should he feel? Jealous? Please. That girl- Sarah, whatever- is cute. Bouncy. Lots of guys would probably be willing to spend some quality time with her. And she’s nothing like Murphy, who is- well. Not cute, or bouncy, or the type who’s into PDA by the fireside.

_It’s not like you’d ever have a chance with Bellamy Blake_ , the dark voice of his subconscious tells him. _You’re all hard edges and rough textures. He deserves someone cute. And bouncy. Look at his beautiful goddamn smile._

And Bellamy IS smiling at him, again, leaning in a little like he’s sharing a good joke or a secret.

“Yeah?” God, his voice is pitched all weird. _Be cool, dumbass._

“Yeah, I guess I shouldn’t kiss and tell…” He trails off, huffing out a quick breath and shaking his head sheepishly.

Murphy doesn’t know what to say. Should he leer like some lecher and ask how she was? If he was talking to M’bege or one of the guys, he would. But here, in this moment, he just wants this conversation to end.

“Why’d you turn her down?” And that’s probably not the best way to change the topic but it’s been on Murphy’s mind since earlier in the evening and he has to ask.

Bellamy stops smiling, which is a real shame, and looks serious instead.

“Sarah’s great. Really, she’s a nice girl. I’m just… not looking for a nice girl.” Bellamy says this quietly, staring meaningfully off into the dark ring of trees, leaving Murphy to figure out what the hell that means. Not into nice? Not into girls? Not into nice girls named Sarah? Hell if he knows.

“Everyone’s pairing up. The threat of imminent death will do that to people.” Murphy points this out in what he hopes is a helpful manner.

“I’m not looking for…” Bellamy takes a deep breath and runs his hand through his hair. “I’m not interested in anything serious right now. I’m definitely not looking for ‘long term’ when we might die tomorrow. I have more important things to worry about than someone else’s feelings. Sarah was nice. I don’t need nice right now.”

Murphy smirks at him.

“You just came down here to play the hero and get all the girls, huh? Your sister was just a convenient excuse.”

Bellamy grins. “Damn. You caught me. You figured it out. Sleeping around was my whole plan.”

“Do you have your next conquest all worked out? Picked out the lucky lady already?” Bellamy stops for a second, studying Murphy in the dying light of a nearby fire.

“Who says I’m looking for a lady?” He says it with such a straight face that Murphy feels the tips of his ears turn red.

“So you’re an equal opportunity lover, huh Blake?”

“Wanna find out for yourself, Murph?” The goading question is almost enough for Murphy’s jaw to drop open. Is Bellamy freaking Blake flirting with him?

A strangled scream coming from camp cuts through the air, effectively ending the low banter.

“What the fuck was that?!” Murphy growls, hand instinctively reaching for his knife.

Across from him, Bellamy is already moving, retracing their steps back toward the dropship.

It turns out to be Jasper, the boy with the goggles who just doesn’t know when to die. It takes a couple frantic minutes to get back to base and identify the source of the inhuman wails, but when they do they’re frustrated to find a situation they can’t improve. Clarke, the Princess, says there’s nothing to be done- they have no medicine, no supplies, no way to heal him. If he’s going to wake up, it has to be on his own.

Frankly, Murphy thinks it’s a waste of time and energy to try to nurse Jasper back to health. The kid’s a goner. Nothing to be done. Might as well just put him out of his misery.

Outside the dropship again, the pair survey the camp. It’s dark, and quiet, except for the occasional howl of agony. The people who had investigated the screams are dispersing, making their way slowly back to their tents or bedrolls or piles of leaves. It’s time for the two of them to go their separate ways.

_Well, can’t make a big thing of it_.

Murphy turns to leave.

“Hey, Murphy, wait.”

The shorter boy turns his head, eyeing Bellamy over his shoulder.

“What’s up?”

Whatever Bellamy opens his mouth to say is lost in the next yell.

“What?” Looking chagrined, the older male shakes his head, taking a step back. “I’ll see you at first light tomorrow. We’ll train.”

First light. That gives him some time to fall into his bedroll and rest after the crazy fucking day he’s had. And ample time to fight off some nightmares about a big black cat pouncing on his… crush?

That almost makes him laugh again. John Murphy with a crush. On the unattainable Bellamy Blake.

Well, they ARE on earth. Crazier things have happened.

“Goodnight, Blake.” -


	2. Please Don't Go

Murphy is familiar with the feeling of a good dream. In the Skybox there wasn’t much to do but sleep. Days blurred together, punctuated by brief periods of wakefulness. Nightmares were more common to him, but the good dream slipped in now and then, a brief flicker of happiness amongst the too long dreary days and nights.

This dream is a particularly pleasant one. Murphy’s mind is replaying a scene from the day before, when he and Bellamy had been practicing some knife throwing. The game had been a fairly enjoyably experience, but it’s going even better tonight in his head.

The boy with the goggles is finally silent- sleeping maybe, maybe not even existing in this dream state. The sun is warm as it streams through the trees, the breeze cool. Bellamy is smiling at him. Murphy sights his target, pulls his arm back, and lets his knife fly. It bites into the tree bark and stays there.

“Nice one.” Bellamy says approvingly. His tone is as warm as the sunlight playing on his skin.

It’s just the two of them. The almost ever present gnaw of his hunger is gone, and a feeling Murphy can’t quite describe has replaced it. It feels like a fluttering in his stomach, a sensation of quiet excitement and smug satisfaction and almost careless joy and other things that all fill him up. He smirks back.

“Beat that, Blake. That’s has to have sunk a couple inches deep.”

Bellamy nods, impressed. He moves to the tree, his longs legs taking the distance in a few strides. Murphy watches him, eyes falling to the other boys narrow hips. What was that old saying? ‘I hate to see you go but I love to watch you leave?’

Bellamy’s right hand closes around the knife’s handle and he pulls, trying to remove it from where it juts into the air. It doesn’t budge. His eyebrows furrow.

“Damn, not bad Murphy.” He pulls harder, the knife dislodging and settling into his palm.

“What can I say? I’m a natural.” Murphy’s smirk is tempted to grow into a smile of his own at the praise from the older boy. The air around them is buzzing with the noise of the Hundred going about their morning, milling around, gossiping, preparing for the day. But somehow, in this hazy scenario invented by his sleeping brain, the trees are cutting off contact with the other juvenile delinquents. It feels like they’re safe, and settled. It’s been years since the younger boy has felt safe, but he doesn’t question it, his gaze still focused on Bellamy.

Bellamy, who is walking back towards him, offering him the knife handle first.

“Yeah? What are your other natural talents?” The flirtatious question makes the strange but pressing feeling in his stomach intensify.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Blake.” He shoots back.

Bellamy laughs. Murphy hasn’t heard him laugh like this before but apparently he can imagine it, the corners of Bellamy’s eyes crinkling and the sound ringing in the morning air. He may have never heard that sound in the waking world but he savors it now.

Murphy takes the knife from his outstretched hand, slipping it into its sheath at his belt.

“Are you ready to head out? I should put these skills to use. Let’s go see if I can hit a moving target.”

Bellamy shakes his head, brown eyes glinting in the early light.

“Actually, I need you to stay here. Someone has to watch the camp, and you’re the only one I trust.”

The words send a small thrill through him. He’s spent the last couple days in the older boys company, planning the upcoming hunt, training with their makeshift weapons, cajoling hungry teens into giving up their bracelets for a strip of dry panther meat or a handful of berries. It feels good to know his efforts haven’t been in vain, that he’s becoming indispensable to Bellamy.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the place while you’re gone.” He promises.

“I don’t doubt you.” Bellamy assures him.

“Be careful out there. Don’t let a rabid animal get the best of you.”

“Aw, Murphy. I’ll miss you too.” Now it’s Murphy’s turn to chuckle. This banter feels easy, like they’ve known each other longer than a few short days. Murphy hasn’t had this kind of effortless exchange with anyone but M’bege, the boy who’d been his cellmate in lock up.

The noise from the camp behind them is getting louder. There are voices intermingling. It’s hard to ignore, but with the way Bellamy is looking at him makes him want to try. The sides of his mouth are upturned in a teasing grin.

Bellamy opens his mouth to speak again but his voice is drowned out by the noise. Murphy frowns. He wants to hear what the older Blake has to say, wants to hear the quip that is sure to be on the tip of his tongue, but a pounding has started behind his eyes. The volume of the noise around them increases. Someone is moaning. It’s not a pleasant sound- it’s a sound of pain, the kind of sound something sick and injured would make.

A voice comes from close by his ear, as though someone were only a few feet away. It’s a girl.

“That kid is driving me crazy!” She growls, an edge in her voice.

Murphy blinks his eyes open, pleasant dream shattered and reality asserting itself instead. He’s suspended in the air, a hammock supporting his weight. The air is thick and heavy in the crowded dropship, angry murmurs coming from the mouths of several of the sleepless young criminals crammed into the stifling space. His dirty clothes are sticking to his skin, damp with sweat and grime.

The boy with the goggles, the kid who’d met the wrong end of a spear, lets out a particularly agonized wail. It reverberates in the metal ship, briefly overwhelming the furious whispers that are getting louder every moment. It makes the pressure behind his eyes increase as a vicious headache brings him to full wakefulness.

Murphy glares at the ladder in the middle of the room, surrounded on all sides by a carpet of bodies. Jasper is upstairs, taking his sweet time dying while the rest of them try to get some much needed shut eye. Keeping the camp safe is a big responsibility, and he can use all the rest he can get.

_Someone should shut him up._ He thinks to himself through the discomfort in his head.

Another wail comes from above, sounding almost inhuman. Nothing living should make that kind of noise.

Murphy huffs out an exhausted breath.

“That’s it. I’m ending this.”

“I heard Bellamy gave him till tomorrow.” A girl comments. Not endorsing the act, but not discouraging it either. Everyone in the dropship is tired of listening to the sounds of something dying.

“Yeah, well, Bellamy isn’t here, is he?” Murphy asks bitterly. It’s bad enough that the older boy has gone off without him, he doesn’t need the fact rubbed in his face.

“The kid’s dying anyway. I’m just getting it over with.”

He heaves himself out of the hammock and onto his feet, intent on the ladder. Too late, he realizes he was being watched. Seeing his intention, Jasper’s loyal friend Monty has launched himself up the rails, dropping a half full cup of water onto the floor and a few unfortunate forms of now-soggy amateur criminals. The grumbles turn into shouts of indignation and outrage.

“Murphy’s gonna kill Jasper!” Monty shouts up to the others, the group of pathetic teens caring for Jasper hand and foot while he carries on with his showy death throes.

Murphy dodges around the kids now struggling to their feet, following Monty up the ladder. He’s too late, and the heavy metal hatch slams into him from above, knocking him down a rung. Furious, he bashes the side of his fist into the cool surface, pounding in time with the the throbbing behind his bloodshot eyes.

“Let me in! I’m gonna kill him, ok? I’m doing us all a favor! Let me in, Monty!”

“Screw you, Murphy!” is his only answer, barely heard over the sound of his fist thumping solidly against the hinged door. It doesn’t budge. They’ve managed to wedge the hatch shut, effectively throttling Murphy’s murderous rage. There’s no way he’s getting in there.

“You better open up this hatch right now!” He demands. This time they simply ignore him. They have that luxury, with a few inches of solid steel keeping them safe.

His fists only last a couple of minutes before they’re bruised from the unforgiving metal, fury giving him a brief but intense burst of adrenalin. As it dies, he becomes aware once again of his surroundings. The blistering heat of the dropship, as well as the racket of Jasper’s wails, have awoken the rest of the irritable kids. They stare up at him now, eyes accusing, as if it’s somehow his fault that their rest has been so rudely disturbed. Murphy wasn’t the one to stab Goggle Boy with sharp objects. Not yet, anyway. And not anytime soon, if those do-gooders have it their way.

Speaking of prissy pains in his ass… Bellamy’s little sister is up there with them.

Groaning, Murphy lets his head fall forward onto the ladder, hot skin resting against the rail.

_At least she’s not going anywhere._

 

\- Murphy isn’t known for his patience.

In fact, if you surveyed the average member of the Hundred, they’d most likely describe John Murphy as a) hot-tempered, b) short-fused, and c) easily provoked. He’s made a name for himself among the thieves and brawlers and murderers of their merry band. He’s Bellamy’s right hand, and he’s doing what he is made to do- he’s making a fist. And he’s punching that fist into the face of everyone in his way.

“Move it!” He barks. The kid in front of him jumps out of the path, startled, eyes wide.

There’s a call going up from the other side of camp, almost out of earshot.

“They’re back!” Someone shouts. “They’re back!” Someone echoes.

“Out of the way!” He orders roughly, shoving through the press of bodies.

_Is Bellamy back?_ The hope sticks in his throat, which is sore from a long and loud day of ordering people back and forth. Layabouts are bad for morale, he is learning. It’s best to keep people active and focused on a goal. Otherwise, they start getting Ideas.

‘Maybe I’ll go explore,’ they think to themselves, ‘maybe I’ll find some food, catch a squirrel.’ And those Ideas lead to Trouble, which could be anything from a twisted ankle to a missing kid. Murphy doesn’t want to deal with that bullshit.

The goal today has been simple- stay close to camp. Keep an eye out for Bellamy or Clarke or even that Wells bastard.

While the goal has been simple, it still fell to Murphy to enforce it. And enforce it he did, with a harsh word or a shove or a yell. Or maybe a lot of yelling. A guy’s gotta have fun somehow.

With any luck, the hunting party is finally returning with something to eat. Maybe a fat pig, or a two headed deer.

Honestly, Murphy may have been a bit… concerned, for the eldest Blake. The hunting party was supposed to be back half a day ago, with spoils to share. Every person in this damn camp has come ambling up to the brown haired defacto leader in the last 12 hours, demanding to know “Where’s Bellamy?” as if Murphy isn’t asking himself that same stupid question every few minutes.

Well, it looks like he might actually have an answer.

Everyone is turning toward the edge of camp, where Murphy can almost make out a few trudging figures in the firelight.

_Are they carrying a stretcher?_

The sticky sweet hope that is in his throat curdles and makes him sick to his stomach. He swallows a few times to stop himself from vomiting up a handful of nuts and some river water. The idea of a juicy boar suddenly isn’t as appetizing. What really matters is whether or not Bellamy is laid out on that stretcher.

Unable to speak, Murphy settles for elbowing his way through the forming crowd. Within a few moments he’s cleared a dozen feet, emerging from the throng of bodies.

“Octavia. Stay back. Octavia, just stay there!” Bellamy’s voice is choked, but audible in the night air. Murphy can see him now, one hand out in front of him, trying to stop his sister from moving forward. Trying to stop her from seeing whoever it is on the stretcher, jacket pulled over their face.

Dimly, Murphy realizes it doesn’t matter who the body belongs to. It’s not Bellamy. It could be anyone else arranged on the narrow frame of the cot, it could be pretty Clarke or smug Wells, and it wouldn’t matter.

_Bellamy is fine. Bellamy is back._

The relief Murphy feels is so great that his shoulders sag with it. Someone is dead, covered haphazardly with a jacket, thin legs poking out from beneath the fabric, but Bellamy is alive and that’s what matters.

Murphy tries to tell himself that the reason Bellamy matters so much is simple- survival. Bellamy is smart, and strong, and determined. He has guard training and good reflexes. He knows how to build a fire, and track an animal, and shoot a gun. Bellamy is Murphy’s best chance of staying alive.

But really, Bellamy is Murphy’s best chance to not be alone.

Murphy is used to being alone. He’s always been the smallest kid, the one with the smart mouth, and after his dad died, the one picking fights, left to his own devices while his mom drank away his rations. He’s angry, and ballsy, and a total mess. Bellamy is one of the only people who could stand him. Sure, kids answer his questions and move out of his way, but Bellamy is the one who makes bad jokes and dumb challenges and teases him until his ears turn pink and he has to say something mean to cover his blush. Bellamy is the one who left him in charge of the entire group, who has made him his second in command. The one who trusted him to defend their camp in his absence.

_He’s fine. He’s alive. He’s back._

“What?” Octavia asks, her eyes on the body. “Bell, stop it. Move!”

In a moment she’s past him, kneeling down next to the stretcher, hand outstretched to remove the covering. Bellamy stares at her, mouth slightly open, as if he’s about to say something but can’t find the words. His face is shadowed but Murphy knows it pretty well by now, can see the agonized look in his eyes, notices the way his hands clench and unclench at his side, unsure of what to do with themselves.

It’s Atom. His face is slack in death, crusted with dried blood.

“Atom.” Octavia gasps, stunned. There is a ripple effect through the mass of watching teens, an exhale that passes from one breath to the next, from person to person as they realize what has happened. Atom is dead. Another one of the Hundred is dead.

“There’s nothing I could do,” Bellamy tries to explain, voice cracking with grief.

“Don’t!” she demands. Her shaking hands cover Atom’s form back up with the discarded jacket. There are tears in her eyes but she refuses to let them fall.

“O,” Bellamy begs, “O, please-”

She stands and storms past him.

“Don’t.” she repeats, her expression steely. Then she’s gone.

The look on the older Blake’s face breaks Murphy’s heart. He has to look away, eyes carefully studying the dirt, as he walks forward. After spending two days imagining their reunion, this isn’t how he wanted it to go. If he never has to see this kind of devastation on Bellamy’s face again, it’ll be too soon.

Murphy gives Bellamy a moment to collect himself, pointedly ignoring a sniffle that sounds suspiciously teary.

_Family is a bitch._

“Lose anyone here?” The older boy finally asks.

Murphy had wanted to brag about his leadership skills or boast of finding a nearby grove of nuts to keep people fed, but now those thoughts have fled.

“No.” he says shortly.

“Jasper?” Bellamy asks.

The hot flare of anger and embarrasment from the night before reignites in his chest. All of those eyes, staring up at him on the ladder, demanding, accusing. The knowledge that he had let Bellamy down, had let Monty and Octavia get the best of him, had been barred from part of the ship he was supposed to be in charge of.

“Still breathing. Barely. I tried to take him out but your psycho little sister-”

Murphy has turned away, still unable to look directly at the older Blake, eyes instead seeking out his wayward sibling. Bellamy’s fists tightening on the front of his clothing whips him back around.

“Bellamy-” he tries to say, only to be cut off by the raven haired boy snarling.

“My what?! My what?!” Bellamy’s eyes, still swollen and wet, are now wild. Spit flies from between his lips and strikes Murphy on the cheek. Their intrepid leader is losing control.

“Your little sister.” Murphy returns, eyes like daggers. He shoves the grasping hands off the front of his shirt. When he imagines being grabbed and manhandled by Bellamy, it usually involves a certain level of passion, but not malice. Right now Bellamy looks like he could turn on his partner and friend in an instant. Like he doesn’t trust him anymore. The thought is like a foul wind in his mind, bringing up goosebumps on his arms and neck.

“That’s right. My little sister.” The words have all the weight of falling rocks. _And don’t you forget it_ , goes unsaid.

“Anything else you want to say about her?” Thinking Bellamy was hurt, was laid out on a stretcher either bruised or bleeding or dead, is almost as bad as the feeling of disappointing him. Instead of commiserating over Octavia’s stubborn streak, they’re at each other’s throats, and not in the sexy way.

“Nothing.” Murphy says lowly. “Sorry.” he offers.

He finally meets Bellamy’s eyes, and holds them. There’s disgust there, whether for himself or the other boy, he doesn’t know. There’s pain, and anger, the kind of anger that roots deep into you and buries itself in your chest, refusing to leave. It’s the kind of anger Murphy can recognize, has felt himself since he watched the air sucked out of his father’s lungs.

Bellamy looks away first, a flicker of emotion on his face that looks like remorse but could have just as easily been a trick of the firelight.

“Get him out of here.” he says to the boys behind him, motioning with one hand towards Atom’s corpse.

He gives Murphy a final thorough gaze, eyes studying him, looking for- something? And then he’s gone too, heading towards the dropship.

_What did I expect?_ Murphy berates himself silently. _Was he supposed to sweep me into his arms and tell me how much he missed me? Don’t be ridiculous._

That’s the word for it, _ridiculous_. Murphy knows Bellamy; not as well as he’d like, but well enough to know that he’s looking for something else, someone with fewer rough edges and sharp angles. Someone cute, and female, and someone with basic respect for other people. Murphy is lacking in all of those regards.

Something shameful curls up in his belly. Something he ignores even as it makes him sick, and refuses to acknowledge or name it.

With a sneer, he hurls his knife into the nearest tree. It bites deep, giving him a disorienting sense of deja vu.

The thing he won’t name stretches in his skin, and Murphy shudders. Better to pretend that it’s good old fashioned anger, pure unadulterated rage, at the older Blake, the other boys standing around pretending not to stare, at Atom for getting himself killed.

It’s not love. That would be _ridiculous._


	3. Kill Me Sweetly

Murphy wakes up to screams.

They’ve been on Earth for barely any time at all, but Murphy is getting used to being rudely awoken. He’s heard all kinds of screams in lock up- the screams of the lonely, the broken, the fearful. Screams from kids who couldn’t be alone with their own thoughts a second longer, and screams from teens having nightmares of whatever horror ended with them in the Skybox, and screams from the young adults being dragged off to their executions.

This scream is bloodcurdling. This scream is pure primal terror.

Murphy is sitting up before he realizes it, and halfway to his feet, still tangled in his sleeping bag, when the scream ends. He’s only fallen asleep what feels like a few minutes ago, collapsing into a heap after his watch ended. He’s worn out, run down by stress and anger and Bellamy’s conspicuous absence at his side. Now, however, he’s wide awake, feeling as though he’s been doused with cold water or slapped across the face. He’s learning that the threat of imminent danger will do that to you.

By the time Murphy tumbles out of the tent he shares with Mbege, pulling his shirt on over his head and almost tripping on his own two feet in the process, a chorus of yelling has begun. It’s on the East side of camp, past the Wall.

Teens around him are rousing themselves, peeking heads out of the dropship, peering blurrily in the direction of the sun. A few people look like they’re aware of what’s going on, hurrying towards the noise, but the rest of the Hundred are sleeping in the cool morning air and totally out of it.

Murphy is halfway across camp before he realizes he has no idea what he’s walking into. The shouts have died down, but Murphy can see a crowd of kids forming just outside the haphazardly constructed section of wall.

He’s partially responsible for the building of that wall, using his loudest voice and meanest jibes to get people working. Murphy is more than a little proud of the structure the kids have managed to erect. The wall isn’t finished yet, but he’s optimistic about their workmanship. Enough of the criminal teens had payed attention in Earth Skills to know how to construct a basic fortification.

Bellamy left him very specific instructions detailing its construction while the hunting party was out on their ultimately ill-fated foray into the wilderness. They’d returned last night with no food, a dead body, and their gallant leader having totally lost it. Bellamy had been all wild eyes and flying spittle, practically frothing at the mouth, obviously torn up about Atom and his brat of a sister. It’s not that Murphy isn’t sympathetic- oh hell. Who is he kidding? He couldn’t care less about either of them. As soon as he’d realized that Bellamy had made it back ok, had come back to camp, had come back to Murphy, then nothing else had mattered.

Jasper, lying half dead and out of reach behind a metal door, didn’t matter. Octavia, refusing to do as she’s told for the hundredth time, didn’t matter. Wells, acting so smug and trying to play Chancellor, didn’t matter. The only thing that Murphy gives a damn about is himself, and his own survival. It’s been that way ever since he found his mother dead in a pool of her own vomit and realized he was an orphan. But somehow, with a few teasing smirks and a bunch of lame mythology references, Bellamy Blake has made an impression on the younger boy. Made him… care.

Murphy finally makes it to the edge of the crowd, craning his neck to try and see over the heads in front of him. One of his hands goes to find the knife at his belt, but grasps at empty air.

_I get woken up by screams and somehow forget my knife. Good job, idiot._

Kicking himself, Murphy finally catches sight of the group’s fascination.

The sun is shining through the trees, heralding the morning. It falls on Wells. At first glance, it looks like the smug bastard fell asleep on watch, but the dark stain on the forest floor tells another story. Blood has suffused the ground, wetting dirt and dead leaves and the odd patch of moss. Wells’ limbs are spread out, reaching for something, head fallen on one proud shoulder.

He could be sleeping.

He’s not.

Murphy has imagined Wells dead a thousand times in a thousand ways, but those are daydreams, idle fantasies of long sought revenge for his father, his mother, his own injuries. Hell, Wells might have died back on Day 1 if Bellamy hadn’t offered him something sweeter than vengeance... the chance to not only survive, but thrive.

When he was arrested on the Ark for setting that damn fire, he knew what awaited him. He can still remember the look of fear and horror on his father’s face as he stood in the airlock chamber, eyes trained on the son he risked everything to save. He remembers the expression of desolation on his mother. He remembers the way the doors behind Alex’s shoulders opened, and his father was sucked out into the cold vacuum of space to die alone. He remembers-

A hand clasps his own shoulder from behind, startling him out of his trance. The people surrounding him, the terrified whispers and the occasional sob which had faded into the background of his perception, are louder now. The smears of blood on Wells’ clothes are bright in the morning sunlight. The hand on his shoulder tightens.

Whirling around, Murphy comes face to face with Mbege.

The taller boy is wide awake, not having had time to sleep since his shift on watch. His eyes move from Murphy’s shocked face to the body lying on the forest floor. Swallowing, he focuses once more on his friend.

“What happened?” he asks, the expression on his face closed off. If he’s as stunned as Murphy, he’s doing a good job of hiding it. Maybe he’s not surprised at all- Wells has… had… plenty of enemies. It was only a matter of time until someone took matters into their own hands. As a boy pretending to be Chancellor, he’d alienated most of the other kids. Too many of them remember the face of his father, Jaha, staring impassively as he sentenced another person to death. Speaking at them from vids and announcements, dispassionately doling out his brand of ‘justice’. Wells was a reminder of the authoritarian rules of the Ark, when these teens finally have a taste of freedom.

The image of Wells reaching out, arms splayed, covered with his own blood, springs into his mind. Murphy resists the urge to turn around and keeps looking at Mbege, trying to focus on the dark color of his jacket instead of picturing the Prince dead.

“I don’t know, I heard a scream. Do you think-”

“It was the Grounders. They’re killing us. They’re killing us!” a young boy is speaking quickly, his voice high and hysterical. Some people are nodding. A girl to his left is crying softly.

“Yesterday it was Atom, now Wells? He’s right outside the wall. They were here! They were right fucking here and they’re killing us!” Someone else takes up the thread of thought. The first boy is hyperventilating. The crowd shifts uneasily around them. Murphy realizes that things could escalate pretty quickly, and wishes Bellamy were here to calm their anxiety and give them an inspirational speech.

“What’s going on?”a quiet voice asks, as if it doesn’t want to know the answer. Behind Mbege, Clarke is walking toward the crowd between the wall and Wells’ body. The assembled teens fall silent at her approach. Wordless, they part for her, providing a path to her fallen friend.

The look on Clarke’s face… all the blood drains from her pale skin, leaving her gasping and pallid. Midstep, her knees shake, threatening to give out beneath her. One hand flies out to catch the bark of a tree, anchoring herself against it.

Murphy feels a sick sense of satisfaction.

Clarke is staring at the ground, breathing hard. After a moment, she risks a glance up towards the body of her best friend. She doesn’t last more than a second before she’s heaving, a torrent of bile spewing from her mouth.

Murphy’s fantasies rarely get this far. Usually it’s wham, bam, thank you ma’am- Wells dead, no longer a piece of shrapnel in his metaphorical wounds. There’s no crying, no bereavement, no grieving. Sometimes Bellamy rewards him with praise, sometimes the other kids look at him approvingly. No one in his daydreams vomits. No one makes strange keening sounds in the back of their throat as they stare down at the dead body of someone they love.

It was supposed to be more gratifying than this. Maybe it would be, if Clarke wasn’t making a mess of herself, salty tears coursing down her sallow cheeks and dripping into the puddle of sick at her feet.

Murphy tries to tell himself that the disgust he feels is with her, her behavior, her public display of mourning, and not with the knowledge that he was almost responsible for the vile scene in front of them.

-

Someone has to dig the goddamn grave.

Yesterday Murphy would have happily passed that task on to Wells himself, but times change and people die, or however it is that old saying goes. Some kid in an ugly but warm looking plaid shirt eventually gets volunteered. After three quarters of an hour his hands are bloody with fresh blisters and he’s taken off the shirt to stop himself from sweating. Murphy is pretty sure Wells had wrapped his hands with strips of cloth to stop the handle of the shovel from tearing up his palms, but no one asked his opinion and he’s not really in a sharing mood.

This guy looks alright without a shirt. He doesn’t remind Murphy of a chiseled Adonis… or was it Apollo? Achilles? Mythology was never his thing… but he’s just fine. Normally Murphy might be tempted to stare but the sight of glistening pale skin just isn’t doing it for him today.

Sudden death effects everyone differently. Some of the Hundred are throwing themselves into life with abandon- eating plenty of berries and wild onions, laughing loudly at jokes that aren’t especially funny, sneaking off behind trees and bushes to “console” each other about the latest tragic loss. The others are ghosts of their usual selves. They drift around, occasionally bumping into each other, eyes staring into the distance as though seeing something far away. Their voices are muted, their footsteps muffled. Murphy wants to shake them or scream in their faces. He resists the urge, although not for their benefit. He does it for Bellamy.

Bellamy is taking Wells’ death particularly hard. He isn’t making a display of himself like Clarke had before Spacewalker whisked her away, but Murphy can tell. It’s in the hard line of his jaw and the fists he keeps clenched against his thighs and the relentless determination with which he moves forward, always forward, never looking back. He had marked out the grave and found the shovel Wells had fashioned from debris. He had dispatched groups of armed teens to a few groves of nuts, and instructed others to check the traps Finn had constructed for game. Now, he’s kneeling in the dirt, mapping out their territory for a group of kids, laying out a guideline for how to finish constructing the Wall. By mid afternoon it occurs to Murphy that Bellamy hasn’t rested all day. He hasn’t seen him eat any of the gathered food or even stop to drink from a shabby canteen.

Not that Murphy is watching Bellamy specifically. He can’t help who his gaze falls on as he’s surveying the camp, or who he notices as he’s directing the larger boys hauling logs, or who he avoids while trying to look busier than he actually is.

It hasn’t been particularly difficult to avoid Bellamy. The young man is on a mission, spending every bit of his energy readying the camp for some kind of assault.

It would be better if they knew what they were up against. They don’t know how many Grounders there are, how strong they might be, how deadly. Apparently dangerous enough to throw a spear with pinpoint accuracy from a couple hundred feet, according to eyewitness accounts. But other than that, the Hundred were completely in the dark. What kind of weapons did they have? Where did they live? How were they organized?

John Murphy isn’t a student of sociology, but he can appreciate practical knowledge. The more they know about their enemy, the easier they’ll be to kill.

Not that Murphy is as eager to kill someone as he had believed. Not after seeing the effect of loss on the people around him. Not after seeing the way Bellamy’s eyes had dulled when some unlucky idiot gave him the news about Wells, or seeing his hands shake before he balled them into fists.

It’s not like Bellamy had any great love for Wells. But for all his bravado and individualist “whatever the hell you want” rhetoric, he cares about the Hundred. Bellamy cares about every one of them to some extent, especially his bullheaded sister, and also, somehow, John Murphy.

He’s not giving off lovey-dovey vibes off down in the dirt, angrily scratching out a line only to redraw it a moment later, but Murphy has seen his softer side. The way his voice doesn’t raise, even as he redirects some dumbass kid for the tenth time. The way he looks to the dropship every few minutes, trying to catch a glance of his sister where she’s delivering water for Jasper.

It’s… endearing. It makes his heart feel too big for his chest, like it’s taking up more space and squishing all his other organs. It’s not exactly what Murphy would call a pleasant experience.

It gets worse when Bellamy looks up from across the clearing and meets his eyes. Murphy turns away immediately, feeling like he’s been caught out. His eyes fall on the water trough in the center of camp. A lean boy with brown hair is getting yet another drink, gulping greedily from a cup. Most of the Hundred are from the lesser stations but you wouldn’t know it from their work ethic. Even with the Grounders having killed Wells, there is still too much idleness in camp.

Focusing on something other than the older Blake helps rearrange his innards so he doesn’t feel full to bursting with… whatever made his heart grow three sizes.

Squaring his shoulders, he marches up to the kid abusing water privileges. Even with his lungs given room to breathe again, he doesn’t trust himself to speak. Snarling, Murphy snatches the cup from his grip.

The boy throws his hands up, taking a step back.

“Hey m-man, it’s all y-yours.” the kid stutters out. He looks properly intimidated. The taste of authority is still new enough and sweet enough for Murphy to relish. Watching the startled boy stumble away lifts his low spirits a bit. Enough for him to take a deep breath, dip the cup back into the basin of water, and turn back towards Bellamy.

It’s only a couple dozen feet to cross but it feels like more. It feels like a chasm, a widening gulf between them, that Murphy can’t let get any larger.

_I’m not soft. It just wouldn’t set a good example for Bell to keel over from dehydration._

Murphy is used to lying, so lying to himself isn’t much of a stretch.

Bellamy looks up again from where he’s kneeling in front of the other teens, detailing the spacing of sheets of metal while leaving room for small gaps to see through. Murphy holds out the cup of water like a peace offering.

A traitorous part of his brain worries that Bellamy will rebuff him, or even just ignore him. They haven’t exchanged more than a few words since their disagreement, haven’t even been in the same space for more than a few moments. Murphy feels like a complete moron, arm extended, drink presented, even though he’s conceding nothing. It still feels like he’s leaping into an abyss.

Bellamy doesn’t make him wait. He stands and takes the cup, hand brushing Murphy’s own. He takes a long drink, and then another, before giving Murphy a very small but grateful smile.

Murphy blinks. At this rate he’s probably going to have some sort of heart problem.

Someone coughs conspicuously and Murphy realizes once again that he’s staring, and surrounded by juvenile delinquents. After so long in the Skybox, he’s out of practice for schooling the expressions on his face.

Not that he’s ever been a great student or anything.

Scowling, Murphy takes the cup back after Bellamy drains it. He’s blushing, he can feel it in his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Bellamy doesn’t seem to notice, already turning back to the assembled teens and continuing to relay his plans for their new barricade.

It takes some effort to walk away, tossing the cup in the general direction of the water trough. The metal drinking vessel clatters against the side of the font before falling onto the forest floor.

_Real smooth, dumbass_.

He tells himself that he’s thinking about his crappy throw.

This whole ‘lying to yourself’ thing gets easier with practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone interested in being a beta reader for this story? I could use another set of eyes before posting.


	4. Eat My Soul

Maybe in a couple hundred years, when all of the juvenile delinquents will surely be dead, they’ll hail the name “John Murphy.”

Maybe someone will keep records of the Hundred’s journey to the ground and the glorious battle that they waged and won against the Grounders, all thanks to John Murphy’s essential role in building the Wall. He will be recorded in the histories. Little kids will learn his name in school. He’ll be regarded as a genius of engineering. A war hero.

Maybe someday that will happen.

First, they have to make it through today.

 _It would be nice to be a hero._ The thought would have been wistful, if Murphy wasn’t such a selfish asshole. Instead it’s tinged with greed and lust.

It’s almost erotic to imagine the kind of life he could lead as someone accomplished. As a success. It’s easy to picture all the things he could do… and all the things he could have.

Next to him, Bellamy is appraising the nearest section of wall under construction. It doesn’t look pretty, but it’s sturdy and well built, considering the laborers are just a bunch of dumb kids.

_It doesn’t have to look good. It just has to keep us alive._

That’s what Murphy keeps thinking to himself, over and over, like a chant in his head.

It’s been several days since Wells was killed. There haven’t been any more deaths in that time, but that was probably due to everyone living practically in each others laps. Most of the teens are too terrified of the Grounders to wander more than a few paces outside of camp. There are exceptions, like a few scouts, Spacewalker, Bellamy’s crazy sister. But for the most part, people have been sticking close to the dropship and the encircling rough settlement.

“This section should be finished by tomorrow,” Murphy says, waving a hand in the direction of the Wall being built piece by piece.

Bellamy’s eyes move from the impressive fortifications to Murphy’s face. Murphy is the one to look away first, turning back towards the center of camp.

Things have been busy around camp, but Murphy is practiced at looking occupied while actually doing as little work as possible. Being in charge of construction is an easy job. He spends most of his time with Bellamy, eyes trained on the kids spread through the camp, watching as they go about their menial tasks, half listening as Bellamy directs the grunts this way and that. Some people are carrying logs into position, others are arranging them in place, even more are sharpening pieces of metal into makeshift weapons. Occasionally he has to give someone special encouragement to keep them working.

And they have to keep working. The harder they work, the greater Murphy’s chance of survival.

So far no one has called him out for using his role as an excuse to hang around Bellamy, so maybe he’s being subtle enough.

It’s not something he’s known for.

Speaking of inspiring the masses… Connor has fallen to his knees on the other side of the main clearing, faltering under the weight of a large log. Obviously he needs a pep talk. A personal one, from Murphy himself.

“Hey!” He shouts, voice cutting through the casual chatter of camp.

He’s aware of Bellamy’s gaze on him again. He doesn’t know if that’s a benefit or a burden.

The eyes of the other criminals are on him as well. Wary. They’re getting accustomed to his brand of motivational speaking.

“You think the Grounders are just gonna sit around and wait for us to finish the Wall?” he asks sarcastically, voice pitched so everyone can hear it. It can’t hurt to remind them all of the stakes here.

He’s dimly aware that he might be, just possibly, potentially, putting on a bit of a show for the older Blake. The other juveniles just happen to get the uncertain perk of free tickets.

He motions to the young kid standing near a spiked defense.

“Maybe we should let the little girl do the lifting for you, huh?” There aren’t nearly enough teens strong enough to lift the logs they’re using to build. Connor needs to get off his ass and get over himself.

“I just need some water, ok? I’ll be fine.” He says weakly, shoulders shaking on the exhale.

“Murphy,” Bellamy says, coming to stand beside him. Unless Murphy is hearing things, his voice has a hint of warmth and amusement.

“Get this guy some water.”

Apparently Murphy is a terrible influence. Absolutely awful. The worst.

But he can’t deny that mischievous is a good look on Blake.

“Hey, you got this?” Bellamy questions, directing his attention to the little girl. He indicates the log with a lazy flap of his hand.

She stops tying knots and starts to move toward him, apparently brave enough to try.

_Not bad for a kid that young._

Bellamy laughs lightly, finally. He had been so broken up about Wells dying, Murphy hadn’t been able to get him to laugh for at least a day immediately afterwards, and even then only sparingly.

Not that he was counting the days. Or paying attention to the things that made Bell happy. That’d be… weird? They were just friends.

“I’m kidding.” Bellamy assures the child, hoisting the log onto his own shoulder.

His legs bunch under his guard issue pants, his strong back helping to bear the weight.

Murphy ignores the way his mouth gets a little dry from watching him.

While he’s thinking about how thirsty he obviously is, he pays attention to another discomfort. He hasn’t wanted to step away from Bellamy for more than a moment or two all morning, prefering his comfortable presence to the doubtful pleasure of the company of the other teens.

 _Yeah. Just friends_.

So, as the opportunity presents itself, he’s a little emotionally relieved not to have to wander out of camp to be physically relieved.

Moving behind the tired boy, Murphy unzips his pants, positions himself, and starts pissing on the back on Connor’s jacket, where he’s still crouched on the ground, breathing heavy from exertion.

It takes Connor a few seconds to realize what the hell is happening, and when he does he jumps up in disgust.

“Ugh! What is **wrong** with you, Murphy?!”

He’s livid.

 _Or you could say, he’s pissed_.

The pun, and the act of cruel authority, makes Murphy laugh. A few of the other guys have to grab Connor’s arms to hold him in place, to keep him from lunging at the chuckling bully.

“I’ll kill you!” Connor promises, eyes bulging, vein in his neck throbbing in time with his furious heartbeat.

Murphy shrugs offhandedly, unperturbed by the threat. He’s Bellamy’s right hand man. He doesn’t have anything to worry about, aside from the obvious Grounder menace which idiots like Connor can’t seem to grasp.

“You wanted a water break.” is his next comment, a smug smirk playing on his lips.

Connor shrugs violently, shaking off the boys holding him. He glares at Murphy, but doesn’t attack again.

“Get back to work!” Murphy announces to the assembled teens, motioning to the variety of jobs that still needs to be completed.

A few of his peers grumble and drag their feet, but eventually everyone goes back to their drudgery. But it’s just a few minutes until there’s a line at the water basin, kids waiting for a turn with one of the metal cups.

Murphy snarls. At this rate, the Grounders will slaughter all of them before they can construct real fortifications.

He knocks the cup out of a boy’s hand, his goons backing him up. Someone has to do something about their work ethic.

“No water until this entire section is up!” He declares, chin up. He knows no one will have the balls to go against him. They might not like him, but they respect him, and maybe more accurately, they respect Bellamy. As long as he’s in Bell’s good graces, he’s untouchable.

The boy whose cup is in the dirt is staring at him defiantly.

“What? What are you staring at, huh?” Murphy taunts him, secure with the other enforcers at his back.

“You son of a bitch!” The exclamation doesn’t come from the boy in front of him, but from Clarke, barreling down on him.

She shoves him, hard. Murphy stumbles back but then laughs again, almost delighted by her spunk. “

What’s your problem?” He queries, wondering what has her panties in a bunch this time. Clarke has been fairly explosive since Wells was found dead.

“Recognize this?” She asks, holding up a weapon.

It’s a familiar blade, one of the knives he fashioned himself and carved his initial into.

Murphy’s eyebrows come together in genuine confusion.

“It’s my knife.” He acknowledges, reaching for it. Clarke moves quickly, keeping it out of his grasp. “Where’d you find it?”

“Where you dropped it. After you killed Wells.” Her tone is sharp and strident, ringing out across the encampment.

The accusation is so ludicrous that Murphy stares at her blankly for a moment, stunned silent.

Unbidden, an image of Wells springs to mind. He’s slumped on the forest floor, bathed in blood and sunlight. His arms are stretched out against the leaves and dirt. His head is resting on his shoulder. In his dark thoughts, Wells’ eyes are staring straight at Murphy.

“Where I what?” He finally manages.

Clarke doesn’t respond, her stony silence damning.

“The Grounders killed Wells, not me.” Murphy insists, still reeling.

“I know what you did,” she says, “And you’re going to pay for it.” Her words sound like a vow.

John Murphy has heard similar words before, by the arresting officer whose quarters he’d set fire to. They had been prophetic then. He hopes they aren’t now.

Starting to feel overwhelmed and desperate, he tears his eyes from Clarke and searches for Bellamy, his friend, his protection.

When he finds the older Blake’s face among the crowd, he feels a bit of almost giddy cheer, certain of his standing with the other boy. Bellamy will be his reprieve.

“Bellamy, you really believe this crap?” He asks, a touch of disbelief bleeding into his tone.

“You threatened to kill him!” Clarke interjects, pressing Murphy’s moment of weakness. “We all heard you. You hated Wells.”

“Plenty of people hated Wells,” he drawls, shrugging again to reduce the tension in his shoulders. There’s no reason to be nervous. He’s in control here.

“His father was the Chancellor that locked us up.”

“Yeah, but you’re the only one who got in a knife fight with him!”

“I didn’t kill him then either.” It’s a statement of fact. As much as Murphy wished Wells dead, he never got to fulfill that wish.

The vision of Wells dead and cold on the ground is in his mind’s eye again, stark against the rest of his muddled thoughts. Maybe it’s for the best that Murphy had nothing to do with his untimely end.

“Tried to kill Jasper too.” Someone calls out. He identifies the voice as Octavia, her striking face transformed with hate.

Next to her, Bellamy won’t meet his eyes.

Octavia’s contribution sets the other teens to murmuring angrily.

Murphy wants to spit. They had practically begged him to kill Jasper! Hours and hours of listening to the boy’s cries of agony. Was it his fault that everyone wanted a good night’s sleep more than they wanted to cater to the nearly dead?

Murphy is careful not to look at Jasper, standing there alive and well. Instead he looks at the other faces staring back at him with animosity.

“Come on, this is ridiculous. I don’t have to answer to you. I don’t have to answer to anyone!” He reminds them.

“Come again?” Bellamy asks, voice soft. His expression, by contrast, is hard. Murphy has spent a good deal of time over the last few days in the older Blake’s company, so he can see the doubt in his eyes.

 _Doubt_. After everything Murphy has done to prove himself, after all the effort he’s made to take control, to impress the taller boy, to set a steady pace on the construction of their defenses. Sure, he’s done those things for his own benefit, but he can’t believe Bellamy doesn’t appreciate his hard work. His loyalty. His tentative affection.

The look in Bellamy’s brown eyes makes him sick. Something nameless writhes in his belly, threatening to turn his stomach.

 _What the fuck is happening right now?_ He wonders almost distantly. The clearing has an air of malice. Something bad is about to happen.

“Bellamy,” he says, voice pitched low and intimate. He steps up to the dark haired boy.

“Look, I’m telling you. I didn’t do this.” He says it with all the sincerity he can muster, fighting down the dull feeling of panic in his throat. Bellamy has to believe him. Bellamy has to trust him, after everything they’ve been through.

“They found his fingers on the ground with your knife.” The statement isn’t accusing but almost pleading. ‘ _Convince me, prove that this wasn't your fault._ ’ his posture is screaming.

Murphy swallows and looks away, choking down the saliva in his mouth as he remembers Wells’ hand, and its bloody stumps where fingers should have been.

 _He doesn’t believe me. Maybe he wants to, but he doesn’t_.

This is very, very bad.

As soon as he realizes that, it gets worse.

“Is this the kind of society that we want?” Clarke asks the surrounding young people, many of whom are stirring with excitement, inflamed by the question. “You say there should be no rules. Does that mean we can kill each other without punishment?"

“I already told you, “ Murphy growls, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand up, “I didn’t kill anyone!” It’s the truth, even if only barely. He would have killed Wells, if not for Bellamy.

Bellamy, who is silent.

“I say we float him.” Someone suggests. The words echoes in his ears and in the mouths of the other criminals.

Clarke pales the way she did when she saw Wells’ body, her whole face going white against the blonde of her dirty hair.

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Against the tide of the crowd, her words are insubstantial.

“Why not?” Connor asks from where he’s watching. “He deserves to float. It’s justice.”

What was that phrase, “evil plants the seeds of its own destruction”? Could this entire situation have been avoided if he hadn’t pissed on a lazy asshole who didn’t want to do his share of the work?

“Revenge isn’t Justice,” Clarke tries to explain, but no one is listening. The crowd stirs around them, looming closer.

“Float him!” Someone calls out. Connor answers, “Float him!” and the others take up the chant.

“Float him! Float him! Float him!” the sound of their combined voices is barely audible over the sound of blood thundering in his ears.

 _This can’t be happening_.

Turning wildly, he looks back at Bellamy, who remains silent. Not inciting the crowd, but not discouraging them either.

He whirls back to face Clarke, moving before he’s really aware of it, only to be tripped up by someone. He falls messily, splayed on the ground, his clothes acquiring even more muck.

That’s the least of his worries when the kicking starts. One blow lands on his back, the other on the side of his head. The world blurs. The blood pounds in his ears. Somewhere, a voice is telling them to stop, but it’s only one voice among a hundred.

Before Murphy can recover from the another kick, there’s a gag in his mouth. He chokes, thrashing, trying to breathe through the fabric.

It’s his turn to be the one strung up in a tree. Through his muddled thoughts, he wonders if Atom was as scared as he is right now.

All he can feel is fear, the cold grip of it on his heart, the heaviness of it in his chest. The fear blocks out the lesser emotions, the disbelief, the outrage... the hurt.

_Bellamy._

As they slip a noose around his neck, his desperate eyes bore into the crowd, looking for the young man he thought was his friend.

He finds him, as the boys set him up on a stool. Myles and Connor and the others, groping him, manhandling him into position. He wants to fight them, is rabid enough to bite their fingers off if not for the gag between his teeth, but can’t. There are too many of them. Every act of resistance is swiftly punished with brutal violence. One boy slams a fist into his side. The pain blurs his vision, but after a moment he can see again.

And he sees him. Bellamy. Looking horrified and torn, one hand on Octavia’s arm, keeping her beside him, the other warding off Clarke who is beating on his chest.

“You can stop this!” She seems to say. Murphy can’t really hear them over the chanting of the crowd and the pounding in his head.

The chant changes. Now they’re repeating a name, Bellamy’s name, repeating it like a holy doctrine, a shiver running through the throng of kids.

_What the fuck is happening? Is this it? Is this how it ends?_

He chokes around the ball of cloth in his mouth. “Bell,” he manages to grunt, eyes beseeching, begging for mercy.

Murphy has begged a few times in his life. For medicine, when he was sick as a kid. For leniency, when his father was arrested. For comfort, when the doors shut on his father’s lifeless body. For food, when his mother drank all his rations away and he’d been a young boy shivering in suddenly too-big clothing.

He’s never meant it more than now. He’s never wanted anything as much as he wants to live. As much as he wants Bell to stop this.

Murphy’s eyes sting as blood seeps into them, obscuring his sight. Blinking rapidly, he realizes Bellamy has moved towards him.

Coming to stand beside him, Bellamy puts a hand on his leg.

This is it. One push, and it’ll be over.

There are tears running down his face and he is helpless to stop them. He’s helpless to do anything but lean into Bellamy’s touch, knowing that the person he can only now admit he has feelings for is in some way going to be responsible for his death.

Murphy doesn’t want to die. Not now, not after going through so much, not after making a home on Earth, not after the older Blake gave him something to want from life. Had let him have a taste of comfort, of companionship, of power, of hope.

 _Bellamy_.

The gentle hand on his leg, warm enough that he can feel it emanating through the cloth separating their skin, is in direct opposition to the force of Bellamy’s voice.

“Enough!”

The voices clamoring Bellamy’s name stutter to a stop.

“Do it, Blake!” Connor yells from somewhere.

The blood in Murphy’s eyes has blinded him completely. The only things anchoring him to reality is Bellamy’s hand on his calf.

“I said enough! This isn’t justice, this is death. Another death, after Trina, after Pascal, and Atom.”

“And Wells!” Connor shouts. The crowd swells with the sounds of agreement.

“We don’t know who killed Wells! We barely have any evidence. And no one has properly presented that evidence. There’s been no trial. No judge, no jury. We’re- we’re pioneers, people. We’re building a new world here. We can’t start by, by floating someone. We’re not the Council, or the damned Chancellor. We’re better than they are. We don’t need them, and we don’t need their rules. We can make our own path. We can chart our own course.” His words are strong but Murphy can feel the tremor in his touch. He’s not as confident as he sounds, voice overwhelming all resistance. It’s another of his damned speeches but Murphy is so grateful for it.

“We don’t know who killed Wells, and we’re not going to institute the death penalty without due process.” Murphy can only guess that he knows this jargon from his guard training.

“Yes! Everyone deserves fair judgement.” Clarke speaks up in support before anyone can object. “We need to, to think about this. We can’t just have ‘an eye for an eye’ as the rule of law. And we need laws, we need order-”

“Float him!” Connor screams, seemingly sensing the tide turning against him.

“Say that again.” Bellamy rumbles. His hand tightens on Murphy’s leg.

A new voice calls out. It’s the Spacewalker. Murphy can’t see him through the haze of red but he knows that whine anywhere.

“Stop! What the hell is this?! Charlotte, get out of here! Cut him down!”

There’s some kind of scuffle. Murphy can hear the shuffling of feet in the dirt.

His fate hangs in the balance. Bellamy and Clarke and Finn against the mob.

The noose is coarse around his throat, pulling at his skin. He can barely breath through the gag in his mouth and a nose that might be broken.

His life hinges on this moment.

And then a little girl tips the scales.

“Stop it!” She says, voice thick with angry tears. “Stop it, he didn’t kill Wells!”

“What?!” Clarke hisses, shocked. For all her protests against the thought of executing Murphy, she apparently had been sure that he was the one responsible for Wells’ death. “How do you know that?”

“Because I did it! I killed him.”

There’s complete and utter silence in the forest. The birds have stopped chirping and the wind has stopped blowing. It seems like no one knows how to respond to that declaration.

“Cut him down, now!” Bellamy orders, the first to react. He shifts his grip from Murphy’s calf to behind his knee. There’s a sharp sound of an axe striking wood, and then the noose around his neck loosens, and Bellamy is holding him in his arms, against his chest, supporting his weight, lowering him to the ground.

Murphy’s boots touch the dirt and his knees give out. He slumps against Bellamy, blind and gagged and in pain, totally disoriented.

A smallish hand dislodges the gag from his mouth, pulling painfully where it sticks to him with spit and damp tears that Murphy will deny if anyone asks. Another pair of hands work on the knots around his wrists. Bellamy is still clutching him, using his own strength to keep Murphy upright. As soon as the rope drops from his arms, he’s scrabbling at his own skin, rubbing the blood out of his eyes.

The first thing he sees is Bellamy’s face. There’s relief there, and naked concern. The grip around him is trembling, but not from fear.

“Can you speak?” “I-” Murphy tries, but he can’t seem to get enough oxygen through his damaged throat and into his lungs. Wordless, he shakes his head.

10 minutes ago, Murphy might have been concerned about looking weak in front of the other criminals. Now, covered in blood and tears and snot, bruises blossoming around his neck and under his clothes, all he can focus on is the older boy in front of him, still craddling him almost protectively.

_He stopped them. He saved me._

The thoughts don’t feel like his, echoing in a mind both filled and empty, loud and silent.

Bellamy’s hands maneuver him, pulling his pliable limbs in the direction of the dropship. His body is loose with shock.

As they turn, Murphy sees the little girl, Charlotte. She’s staring at the ground, eyes overflowing with tears. The people around her have stepped back, leaving her to stand alone.

He resists Bellamy’s inexorable pull, digging his heels in. It takes a tremendous amount of energy to fight the force of gravity and stay vertical, but he does it, bloodshot eyes boring into the child. It almost drains him entirely to gasp out a single word, “You-!”

Finn moves between them, facing Murphy. He puts his hands up, placating.

“Let’s talk about this. Charlotte is just a kid, we can’t just-” Fury cuts through the cloud of pain and dizziness, giving Murphy the strength to push off from Bellamy’s chest and stagger toward the real killer.

He clears his throat forcefully, hacking up a clot of blood and spitting it onto the ground.

“Bull- bullshit! That little bitch-”

“Hey! She’s a child!”

“She’s a killer!” he croaks, raising a hand to hold his throat against the crushing pain.

A few teens nod, while others are shaking their heads negatively. There’s confused chatter.

“Murphy.” Bellamy doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The sudden vigor melts from his muscles and Murphy sags back against him.

But he’s not giving up. Not until he gets even.

“You need to sit down.” Clarke says, her voice brisk but not unkind, with all the authority of a natural healer. “Come on, we need to soothe your throat, see to that head wound-”

_And my nose, and what might be a cracked rib or two, and everything else those bastards did to me._

Finn is still planted in front of Charlotte, expression resolute. Bellamy is tentatively trying to guide him toward shelter, or at least somewhere he can sit.

He wants to rebel. He wants to shove his way past everyone and bury his knife into her skull.

The temptation is so strong that he can taste it along with the copper tinge in his mouth.

But his legs are shaking dangerously, barely supporting his weight even with Bellamy’s assistance. His head is still bleeding sluggishly, threatening to blind him again. He can’t quite breathe.

If he wants to not only survive this, but thrive… he needs to pick his battles more carefully.

With great reluctance, he lets Bellamy steer him towards the quick-and-dirty infirmary Clarke has set up in the dropship. His feet tangle underneath him and Bellamy’s hands are the only thing that keep him from faceplanting into the earth.

In the span of what seems like a few seconds, they enter the metal container. Murphy’s head lolls on his neck. He suspects he’s slipping in and out of conciousness.

 _Too much excitrment for one day_. He thinks dreamily.

Someone lightly slapping the side of his face brings him back around.

“Hey, Murphy? Murphy, I need you to breathe.” It’s Clarke, peering into his eyes and taking his pulse with the other hand. Her own hand is hot against his wrist.

At the reminder, his chest heaves. He sucks in the air greedily, the lightheaded feeling abating somewhat, but the pain of his body reasserting itself.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Checking your pupils. Do you know where you are?”

As his head clears, he looks toward the light filtering into the room through the crude curtains. Finn is standing in the doorway, hands on Charlotte’s shoulders, talking to her in hushed tones. She’s shaking her head miserably.

 _I’ll make her fucking miserable_. Murphy thinks savagely, breathing deeply and feeling a plan take shape in his brain.

“-hear me? John, try to focus-”

“She killed Wells.” is what he says. Clarke’s spine straightens. While she’s surprised, Murphy presses his advantage.

“She killed Wells. She should be punished.”

“Hey.” Finn’s voice intercedes, overhearing him. “Didn’t we just go over this? No one is-”

“A trial. We should have a trial.” Each word is torture to wheeze out of his wrecked throat, but he forces himself through the pain. “Right, Princess?”

Clarke opens and closes her mouth a few times, before huffing angrily.

“Well, apparently we’re instituting law and order here on planet Earth, so I… I guess we have to. We have to have a, a trial, some kind of hearing. I never really studied law-”

“I have.” That’s Bellamy’s voice. He’s in Murphy’s blind spot, damaged eye free from blood but starting to swell shut. Murphy knows he’s there from his body heat and the hand that has found his leg again, this time resting reassuringly on his knee.

“That means we’ll need lawyers, someone to represent Charlotte-”

“The defense.”

“Yeah, and someone to try and prove her guilt-”

“The prosecutor.” Bellamy says dutifully but absently, as if his mind is already a few steps ahead of Clarke. Murphy wishes he could see him but stays focused on the doctor-in-training.

“What do you mean, prove her guilt? She admitted it. In front of a hundred witnesses.” Murphy snorts, before immediately regretting it and putting a hand to his nose.

“That’ll need to be set. And yeah, she did, but we still need answers-”

“Testimony.” “-testimony, fine, we need _testimony_. We need to know why she did it.” Clarke struggles for a moment but then admits, “ _I_ need to know why she did it.”

It works out pretty well that Charlotte happens to be in the dropship with them, gaze darting from one person to the next as they speak in succession, because Murphy isn’t in the best shape to go running off to find her.

He’s recovering, the seep of blood from his gash having stopped, the ache in his throat receding. But he’d much rather sit right here, thank you very much, with Bellamy’s touch and the cool air of the interior of the dropship washing over him.

Actually, the air feels very cool. Almost cold.

Murphy shivers before he can stop himself.

“Are you cold?” It’s the older Blake asking.

Clarke clucks her tongue. “It’s shock, your body is going into shock. Bellamy, get a blanket or something.”

Murphy expects Bell to bristle at the command that Clarke just assumes will be followed, but instead the warm hand cupping his knee disappears. Murphy tries to tell himself he doesn’t immediately miss it, but he’s not in the best shape for subterfuge or self denial.

The spot of warmth on his leg is replaced by heaviness around his shoulders as Bellamy bundles him into the leader’s own jacket, the fabric loose around the smaller boy. It smells strongly of pine sap and smoke and something that is just Bellamy.

 _Maybe this would be romantic if my name was Sarah and I was bubbly and bouncy instead of spiteful and beat up_. Murphy thinks harshly to himself.

But when Bellamy’s hand returns to his knee immediately after tucking the jacket around him, steady and constant, he has to acknowledge that it’s pretty charming.

“Well?” Clarke asks, interrupting his self deprecating thoughts. She’s turned towards Charlotte and Finn. “Why did you do it? Why did you kill my best friend?”

“Because he was my demon.”

Bellamy’s hand tenses on his pant leg.

Clarke scoffs. “What does that even mean?”

Murphy turns his head fully so he can see the eldest Blake sibling. Bellamy looks like he knows what that cryptic statement might mean.

“I mean, he was my nightmare. My waking nightmare.” Charlotte’s voice gets stronger and more clear with every word. “When I sleep, I see Chancellor Jaha, and when I’m awake, I would see Wells Jaha. I just couldn’t take it! And, and Bellamy said to slay my demons. He _said so_.”

Bellamy stands fully as all eyes turn to him.

“What the hell is she talking about?” Clarke challenges.

“She misunderstood me! Charlotte, that… that is not what I meant.” He moves to Charlotte, leaning down to look her in the eyes.

“Please don’t let anyone hurt me.” She pleads.

Bellamy sighs heavily, shaking his head. “We’ll have a trial. It’ll be fair. We’ll discuss your crime, and your punishment.”

“And you’ll get what you deserve.” Is Clarke’s contribution as she stares at Charlotte, her expression closed as if she’s seeing her for the first time.

“Clarke!” Finn interjects, scandalized.

 _Good_. Murphy thinks viciously, steeling himself as Clarke turns back and moves her hands to set the bone in his nose. _I’ll make sure everyone realizes you deserve to suffer, just like I did._

The sharp thoughts are blunted by the way Bellamy is looking at Charlotte, face open and tender. Apparently the young man has a weak spot for the kid, even after this fiasco. Murphy has to wonder if it’s an older brother thing.

The look on Bell’s face and the cozy jacket around his shoulders warm him from within and without. The frantic adrenaline and fury of the last half an hour are wearing off.

He starts to relax, only to yelp loudly a second later. “Ouch!” He hisses through gritted teeth as Clarke rearranges the fractured bone in his nose.

Bellamy turns away from Charlotte at the noise, countenance still soft but now filled with concern.

“Are you ok?” He asks.

Murphy shrugs his shoulders and leans back against the metal of the dropship. He’s very tired all of a sudden.

He wants to say _thanks to you_ , but there are too many people standing around to risk it. Instead he says, “I’ll survive. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Bellamy smiles. “Is that a bet?”

Murphy is surprised into laughter.

“Sure, I give myself pretty good odds.”

The taller boy moves to stand near him again, letting Finn console Charlotte and Clarke begin to boil water to clean his cuts and scrapes.

It’s been a long day. Murphy can hardly be blamed when his eyes start to blink closed after being disinfected and bandaged. He has to shrug off Bellamy’s coat when Clarke wraps his ribs, and he can’t find an excuse to put it on again before Clarke insists that he lie down properly.

She’s muttering something about head trauma and concussions and not sleeping for more than a few hours but Murphy is too goddamn tired to listen.

He arranges himself in a hammock as his eyelids droop, battered body craddled by the cloth. The last thing he’s aware of is a set of large hands arranging a familiar smelling jacket around him.


	5. Unstoppable Situation

John Murphy is acutely aware of the power of touch.

When he had been a sick kid, feverish and delirious, his dad had pressed a kiss to his sweaty skin and promised to find him a cure.

It was the last touch they ever shared.

When he had stood in front of the air lock chamber staring after his father’s body as it careened through space, shivering with recent illness and a child’s imagination of the cold of the vacuum, his mother had put her arms around him and held him together when he threatened to shake apart.

It was the last time she would ever hug him to her. After that, she had always been pushing him away and holding a bottle to her breast.

Yesterday, when he had been perched precariously atop a stool, ragged rope around his neck, barely breathing through the blood in his nose and the gag in his mouth, Bellamy Blake had put a hand on his leg. It was warm and heavy, leeching into his body that was stiff with terror.

Murphy had been certain that was the last touch he would ever feel. The last time he would ever experience the pressure of flesh, soft and yielding, ever again.

At the time he supposed it was fitting, that it was a final touch of someone he cared for.

But then, somehow, miraculously… Bellamy had saved him. Had spoken up in his defense, echoed by Clarke and Finn. The hand on him, the one that Murphy thought was a death omen, was a comfort instead.

Bellamy helped lower him to the ground. Braced him against his body when Murphy was too unsteady to stand. Practically carried him into the dropship. Was there to offer sympathy with a reassuring touch as Clarke cleaned his open wounds and set his broken bones.

Had draped his own jacket around his sleeping form so Murphy was enveloped in his warmth and scent.

Murphy doesn’t want to read too much into it. He’s always known, despite his bravado, that Bellamy Blake has a soft heart. Granted, he’s seen him punch a boy in the face over a strip of panther meat. But he’s also seen him joke around with little kids, and share his serving of food with his baby sister, and mourn deaths that he couldn’t have stopped.

So when Murphy opens his good eye after an indeterminate amount of sleep, he’s not entirely surprised to see Bellamy’s face just a couple feet away, right in his line of sight. His eyes are closed and his arms are crossed against his chest, hands tucked under his arms to preserve his body heat. His chin is resting against his chest, seemingly in slumber.

While he’s still loose with sleep, Murphy smiles dazedly. His whole body is warm under the coats, both his own and the one Bellamy has let him use to rest. The one it looks like the black haired boy is missing where he’s leaned against the cold metal of the dropship, head down, shoulders slumped.

Bellamy Blake is his Hero. His knight in dirt stained, disheveled clothing. He’s even got the war wounds to prove it, having somehow acquired a split in his eyebrow and lower lip since the last time Murphy saw him.

_Wait. Does that make me the Damsel in Distress?_

The thought is so baffling that Murphy huffs out a laugh through his nose before gasping in pain. First from the shot of air through his nostrils, then from the creak of his cracked ribs.

Bellamy’s eyes fly open and he straightens, sitting up from the wall of the room. His hands drop from his armpits to his belt, feeling for a weapon. Even as he gropes for something, anything, his gaze flicks around the room frantically.

Finally, after an impossibly long moment, he takes in the area around him, the boy laying in the hammock across from him, the fact that there’s no apparent danger.

Damn _._ Now Murphy feels guilty as hell for waking him. Unconscious, or maybe more accurately _relaxed_ , is a good look on Blake. They’re both practiced in effecting an air of nonchalance, but true comfort is a luxury they just can’t afford on the ground.

Murphy is used to not being able to afford things- medicine, warm clothing, food. It doesn’t make him any less bitter when those things are denied him.

And now, thanks to the pain blossoming in his sore body and his own pathetic reaction, he’s denied the pleasure of watching Bellamy Blake sleep.

_Wait… is that creepy?_

Murphy doesn’t pride himself on his reputation but _creepy_ is a line he doesn’t want to cross.

He doesn’t have time to reach a conclusion about the ethics of voyeurism before Bellamy is sliding over on his knees, expression melting from startled to concerned.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice rough from sleep. “You ok?”

Murphy can’t begin to answer that question honestly. There’s no tactful way to say, _I was badly beaten and almost executed until you saved me and now I’m in terrible pain but my insides feel all squishy just from seeing your face._

So he lies.

Call it a habit.

“Just fine.” He says, trying for a cocky grin. It feels a bit lopsided.

Bellamy’s worried frown only deepens.

“Can you even see out of that eye?”

No, he can’t, but he’s hoping there’s no permanent damage. Instead of answering, he counters, “And what exactly happened to you?” Indicating the new cuts on the black haired boy’s face.

Bellamy scoffs. “Turns out your friend Connor and his buddies want you arrested. For… I don’t even know. Harassment? Public urination?”

At the mention of Connor and the other delinquents, Murphy pales.

Memories flood his mind. The frustration he’d felt with their lazy attitudes. The bubble of laughter in his throat after he’d pissed on Connor’s back. The anger and disbelief when Clarke accused him of murdering Wells.

And the fear. When the Hundred had become a bloodshirsty mob. When he’d been thrown to the ground and kicked over and over until he couldn’t draw breath. When his hands had been tied and the noose had been strung around his throat. When he couldn’t see for the blood in his eyes and couldn’t hear anything except for the crowd screaming for revenge. For his death.

_I think I’m going to be sick._

Bellamy notices immediately. “But it’s bullshit. Total bullshit. It’s not going to happen.” In a slightly gentler tone he says, “You don’t have to worry.”

It’s a nice sentiment but Murphy thinks that’s probably all it is, a cliche people use when someone is sick or injured and needs reassurance.

Bellamy looks at him, face open, eyes soft. His hands are bunching on his knees like he wants to do something with them but can’t decide what.

He clearly wants Murphy to believe him, to think that he’s somehow safe.

Despite himself… Murphy does feel a bit reassured.

“Wait, you’ve already had to fight off roving bands of anarchists? You only JUST instituted law and order on planet Earth, what, a few hours ago?”

“Something like that.”

Murphy shakes his head wryly.

“Guess you were just in time.”

It’s the closest he can come to saying _thank you_.

The words aren’t lost on Bellamy. Murphy recognizes the tender look in his eyes. He’s fairly sure it’s reflected in his own.

“Good, you’re awake.” Clarke breezes in through the torn curtains that serve as a barrier for the dropship, bringing the stirring sounds of camp with her. The noise washes over them like cold water.

Bellamy sits back on his ankles.

“Morning, Princess.” Murphy drawls, He’s not thrilled about the interruption.

“How are you feeling?”

“As healthy as a horse- wait, do you think horses are still around?”

Clarke ignores the question. “Are you in any pain?”

“Only when I laugh.” he says, before stretching luxuriously. Or, trying to. Halfway to lifting his arms over his head his ribs protest. He winces. “Or, move, I guess.”

Bellamy’s eyes have fallen to the strip of stomach his stretch has exposed. He blinks and licks his lips, but his face shutters when Clarke addresses him.

“You might want to get out there. Some guys are making trouble.”

“Connor?” The dark haired young man asks. The question replaces the last of the glowing butterflies in Murphy’s stomach with unease.

“No, it’s a bunch of angry teenage boys who want…” her words trail off, as though she’s reluctant to voice the problem.

“...want what?”

Clarke looks uncomfortable. “To… start the trial.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.” She confirms.

“That’s not gonna happen. We haven’t even figured out how to hold a trial, or who to appoint as judge, or jury, or who-”

“Yeah, I know. Go tell them that.” Bellamy sighs but gets to his feet, rolling his shoulders.

“Mind if I…” he starts to ask, motioning to Murphy. It takes Murphy a second to realize he’s gesturing to his jacket, and he gives it up with some secret reluctance. Their fingers touch but only briefly before Bellamy shrugs the article of clothing on and moves to leave. He looks back once, right before he ducks out of the dropship, his brown eyes shadowed behind Clarke’s shoulder. Then he’s gone.

“Now, how’s my patient doing?” Clarke questions.

“I told you, I’m fine. Never better.”

“I heard you, but Bellamy’s gone, so you can drop the tough guy act. What hurts?”

“Besides everything?” He asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Ok, so on a scale of one to ten-”

“I don’t know, a seven? I’m beat up but I don’t really know how to access the damage beyond ‘not about to die.’” He frowns. “I’m not going to just keel over, right?”

Clarke rolls her eyes at his dramatics. “The broken ribs weren’t bad enough to puncture your lungs, so as long as you don’t take any more damage, none of your other injuries are life-threatening. And now that we know how to make some crude medicine from that seaweed-”

“Ew, am I going to have to drink that?”

Clarke laughs at his grimace.

“Jasper says it’s not so bad. You’ll get used to it.”

Murphy doesn’t want to get used to any more of the shitty things the ground has in store for them, but suspects he doesn’t have much choice. Might as well adapt if it’ll keep him alive.

“Can you stand?”

_You don’t know until you try, right?_

So he tries. And almost falls over when he gets his feet under him and his legs refuse to work. Clarke comes closer and raises her hands to catch him if he can’t support himself. After a moment he rises to his full height, wavering only slightly.

“Ok, now walk.”

His first few steps are unsteady but he makes it across the room, turning around with a little flourish.

“Now-”

“How about you stop ordering me around? Your bedside manner sucks.”

The look on her face makes him want to laugh, but he resists the urge. His ribs ache when he shifts his weight from side to side. Probably better not to aggravate the problem.

That doesn’t mean he can’t aggravate Clarke Griffin.

“Didn’t your mom, the doctor, ever teach you-”

“Don’t talk about my mom.” Clarke says harshly. “In fact, maybe just don’t talk.”

Murphy swallows the rest of the sentence about her remaining parent. He can understand having some issues with your mother.

“Then how could I answer your pointless questions about my health?”

“You might be right, keeping you alive might be ‘pointless’, but I think down here every life matters.”

“Spare me, Princess. You don’t really believe that.” His lips form a cruel smirk. “What about Charlotte?”

The mention of her best friend's murderer makes Clarke scowl harder.

“Charlotte is going to be punished for what she did. For the crime she committed. You can’t just kill someone to make yourself feel better.”

“Maybe you can’t. The rest of us are on board with the idea. Obviously.” He fingers the bruises around his neck.

“No one is going to be hung again, especially not a little girl. We’ll figure something else out.”

Murphy laughs through his sore throat, unable to restrain the mocking sound. The pain in his ribs pulses in time with the vibrations in his chest.

“What is there to figure out? She killed Wells.” He reminds her, as if she needs reminding.

Whatever Clarke’s next retort might be is lost in a sudden din of noise. The racket makes both of their heads turn to look at the makeshift doorway coverings. It sounds like arguing.

“What the hell is going on out there?”

“Your friends are demanding ‘justice’ for you. Mbege even-”

Murphy looks back at her.

“Mbege? What’s he got to do with it?”

The boy might be as much of a bully as Murphy himself is, but the two of them have formed a bond over their shared time in lockup and on the ground. It means something that he’s apparently being loyal in the aftermath of Murphy’s almost-execution.

“He’s one of the people trying to start the trial immediately.”

The voices outside the dropship are getting even louder.

Murphy thinks he hears Bellamy say “Be smart about this-”

There’s a smacking sound, like the sound of two things colliding. The voices groan in disapproval.

Murphy and Clarke move at the same time, Murphy limping a bit on his injured side, pushing out of the curtain separating them from the scene taking place in the clearing.

And what a scene. There’s a gathering of dozens of teens, clustered together to watch the show taking place in the middle of the open space.

Bellamy is bent to one side, holding his jaw. The split in his lip has reopened and he spits blood on the ground.

Mbege and a troop of criminals are facing him.

_Angry_ doesn’t quite capture the way Murphy feels. In an instant he’s full of molten rage, bursting with fury. Inflamed enough to stagger away from the dropship into the middle of the riotous teens.

Mbege is the first to spot him over Bellamy’s head. He looks reckless and proud, shoulders back, feet braced, ready for a fight.

As more of the teens recognize and look to him as he lurches across the clearing, their stares make the hair prickle on the back on his neck. Just half a day ago, one brief nap in Murphy’s world, these same kids were screaming for his death.

Some of them look away quickly. Others stare.

Murphy scowls but keeps on his relentless press forward, eyes focused on his friend Mbege and… whatever the hell Bellamy is to him at this point.

“What are you doing?” Murphy demands, not mincing words.

Mbege looks surprised at the harsh tone.

“We’re doing what’s right. Demanding justice.” he answers. “We’re going to make that little bitch swing for what she did to Wells, and to you.”

The guys at his back echo the sentiment.

Bellamy has straightened now, and turns to look at Murphy, quiet gratitude in his expression for the timely intervention. The look strengthens Murphy, and makes it easier to stand upright under all the stares. Makes it easier to bite out, “Back off, Mbege. The brat will get what’s coming to her.”

His words set off a chorus of whispers among the watching crowd. Mbege raises an eyebrow, and the boys behind him glower.

“You _know_ what’s coming to her. She needs to be punished for what she did.”

Murphy ignores the ghost of the feeling of a rope around his neck.

“And she will be.”

“Oh yeah? When? Before the Grounders kill us all?” The reminder of the Grounder threat bolsters Mbege’s argument with the crowd, if the murmurs are any indication.

“You’re right,” Bellamy interjects, “We should be thinking about the Grounders, how to prepare for them-”

“How are we going to fare against the Grounders when we have murderers walking freely around our camp?”

“Charlotte isn’t the only murderer here.” Bellamy says meaningfully, indicating some of the boys at Mbege’s back with a tilt of his head. A drop of blood rolls down his chin before he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

“Actually…” Murphy observes with a glance at the crowd. He can’t pick out Charlotte’s face.

On a hunch, he turns to the dropship. Clarke is no longer standing there watching. She’s disappeared.

The old and by now familiar feeling of anger wells up within him again, bubbling and boiling under his skin.

“Goddamn it!”

It doesn’t take more than a moment for Mbege and his goons to realize what’s happened. Clarke and Charlotte are gone. Murphy would bet that Spacewalker is with them, which means finding them might be a problem.

And they have to find them. Charlotte needs to be punished, at the very least for standing by while he was strung up like meat.

Bellamy promised him a trial, a chance at justice, and he’ll be damned if that promise isn’t fulfilled.


	6. Ravenous, Time to Feed

Night has fallen.

Murphy can’t see much beyond the glow of the torches, but that won’t stop him from searching. It won’t stop any of the boys at his back either, doggedly following him and Mbege, howling Charlotte’s name in the dark of the forest. The pack of them comb through the underbrush, hunting for their prey.

Somewhere, amidst the gloom of the trees and plantlife of the region, Clarke and Finn have stashed the brat. Murphy doesn’t know what they think they’re going to accomplish, except for delaying the inevitable.

And it is inevitable. It has been since the confession, since the hanging, since the murder itself.

“It’s justice,” Mbege had insisted, trying to convince him to help with the search party.

Justice, righteousness, blah blah blah.

It sounded fine. It was as good a justification as any. But it rang hollow.

The truth was… darker, and harsher, and more brutal. The truth was, Murphy wanted revenge.

Revenge for… _everything_. For the miserable life he’d had to lead on the Ark as one of the underprivileged. For the loss of both his parents. For the years and years of hunger and want and yearning that were rewarded with a one way ticket away from the only home he’d ever known, to be dropped unceremoniously on a hostile planet teeming with danger.

But mostly, for being beaten and hung and humiliated. For his broken nose, his fractured ribs, the collar of bruises ringing his neck. For his wounded pride.

There isn’t much Murphy can do about most of the bullshit in his life. He has no way of striking back at the true culprits, the people in power who are to blame for his unfortunate circumstances. He can still remember the impassive, uncaring face of Chancellor Jaha before he had given the order to float Alex, his father. Trying and failing to kill Wells was the closest he’s come to making things right.

Until now. Now, revenge is close. So close he can feel it in the air, like an electricity, arcing around him, ready to shock.

Somewhere, Charlotte is hiding. And Murphy is going to find her, and make her pay for what she did, for the things she made happen.

He doesn’t think about what, exactly, he’s going to do when he finds her. The ways to make her suffer, to make her sorry. Instead, he focuses very intently on the next shadow that might be concealing her, the next hole she might have burrowed into, the next place to look.

He doesn’t think about the fact that she’s still just a kid, some snot nosed brat. He doesn’t think about how small she had looked amidst the crowd of older teens, how fragile, how insubstantial. He doesn’t think of how she had pleaded with Bellamy to protect her.

He definitely, definitely doesn’t think of Bellamy, who he left behind at camp.

Honestly, he’s surprised he was able to talk the older male into it. All he’d had to do was parrot some of the tripe Mbege was spewing about the rightness of their cause, and Bellamy had agreed to stay at camp in case the Grounders made some sort of move. To protect their people. To wait for Murphy’s return.

It had almost been too easy.

With a frown, Murphy decides firmly not to think about that, either. He, embarrassingly, hadn’t wanted to part from the eldest Blake. It was only the hazy idea of what might happen when the hounds cornered their prey that motivated him to leave Bellamy behind.

“Come on out, Charlotte!” Mbege shouts into the night, a cruel laugh in his voice.

“We know you’re guilty. We don’t even need a trial, we can skip straight to the execution!” The callous chuckle echoes amidst the trees.

Somewhere in the dark, another voice calls out.

“Murphy!”

He jerks to a stop, jarring his injured side. Grimacing through the pain, he turns towards the sound emanating from deeper in the forest, raising the lit torch in his hand.

“Murphy, I’m over here!” It’s Charlotte.

Is she taunting them? Luring them into a trap? Could she actually be stupid enough to give herself up?

Maybe. It’s within the realm of possibility. After all, she’s still just a dumb kid. She can’t possibly imagine what the pack of boys has in store for her.

Not that Murphy is thinking about her inevitable fate in any detail now, either. He’s too busy moving again, propelling himself forward despite his injuries. He hurtles through the forest, Mbege at his heels.

A low hanging branch whips against the side of his cheek, breaking the skin. Snarling, he presses on.

He has a vague idea that he needs to reach Charlotte before the other boys crashing through the underbrush around him, drawn to Charlotte’s cries like predators with the scent of blood in the air.

The trees give way before him and he emerges onto a rocky precipice, almost stumbling as the terrain changes under his feet. Charlotte is there, peering down into an abyss. Bellamy is beside her.

“Bellamy!” Murphy says hotly, the word drawn out of him against his will.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but now, after everything they’ve shared… it does. The older Blake should be back at camp, keeping their people safe. Instead here he is, in the cold open air overlooking a cliff, with the girl responsible for Murphy’s physical and metaphorical wounds.

As soon as Bellamy sees him by the light of the torch, he thrusts a hand in front of Charlotte, protecting her. Protecting her from Murphy.

The thought is harsh against the dim background of his mind, burning brightly with anger and shame. This is what they’ve come to?

The boys he had outpaced have caught up, and filter out of the forest around him, ringing the pair.

“You can’t fight all of us. Give her up.” Murphy says, voice low with an urgent warning. Bellamy is already acting like an idiot, he doesn’t need to make some suicidal last stand.

The light of the other boys flames illuminates Bellamy’s face more clearly in the night. He looks at Murphy as though somehow _he_ is the one being betrayed.

“Maybe not.” He affirms. “But I guarantee I’ll take a few of you with me.” The desperate look in his brown eyes is replaced with determination. Murphy has seen that look before, right before Bellamy had done something reckless and wild.

Around him, Mbege and the other boys shift uneasily, eager to sink their teeth into Charlotte but unwilling to put themselves in actual danger. They don’t want to go up against the strong leader with guard training and experience on his side.

Murphy hesitates, torn. His instincts are screaming at him that the object of his ire is finally here, finally in front of him after these long hours of searching, cowering a bit behind her protector. Another part of him, the more rational part, rejects the idea of putting Bellamy in any kind of danger.

Beside him, Mbege takes a small step forward, brandishing his flaming club. Another boy spreads his feet, knocking aside some loose gravel as he braces himself for a fight.

He’s out of time.

“Bellamy! Stop!” That’s Clarke’s shrill voice, high with anxiety. Spacewalker is with her, following her out of the woods. Her hair shines gold in the dim firelight as she moves forward.

The new additions seem to make the other bloodthirsty boys even more unsure of themselves.

Clarke positions herself between Murphy and Bellamy, turning to focus on the younger of the pair. She’s breathing hard from exertion, supposedly from running to reach them in time. Her jaw is set. She looks suitably grim.

“This has gone too far.” She says, one hand extended as though to placate him. “Just calm down. We’ll talk about this.”

Murphy wishes he could calm down. He wishes that he and Bellamy were back at camp, safe behind the Wall, together and in agreement, maybe sharing a meager meal in front of the fire and planning out Charlotte’s trial. Not here, surrounded in the harsh open air, with eyes watching their every move and hands ready to grip their weapons.

For a moment, no one moves. No one even seems to breathe, staying impossibly still as though waiting for something to happen.

Looking at the three of them now, Bellamy and Clarke and Finn arrayed before him, forces Murphy to take a deep breath, the air shuddering through his still sore throat. The last time he’d seen them aligned had been just earlier today, before the treacherous race through the darkened forest, before Mbege’s and Bellamy’s altercation in the clearing, before waking up to Bellamy’s face, peaceful and slack in sleep. It was at his own almost execution.

The three of them had been all that stood between him and oblivion at the end of a short rope. Clarke had insisted on due process, Finn had fought to cut him down, and Bellamy… Bellamy had stopped the madness with a decisive word, had taken him in his arms as he lowered him to the ground, holding him against his body, helping him stand again on his own two feet.

They had saved him, all of them, each of them in their own way. It had been Finn who took Charlotte in hand afterwards, Clarke who had tended to Murphy’s injuries, Bellamy who had softly covered him with his warm jacket.

Without them, Murphy wouldn’t be standing here on this damn cliff. He wouldn’t be standing anywhere at all. He’d probably be under a few feet of dirt by now, eyes closed, chest still, heart stopped. Dead. As dead as his parents, as Atom, as Wells. Dead and done.

Death is the enemy. Death is the end.

_Is that what I want for Charlotte?_ He thinks, finally letting his scattered thoughts coalesce into a question. _Do I want her dead, like her parents, like my own? Do I want to be responsible for ending her life?_

Behind Bellamy’s still outstretched arm, Charlotte is watching him with wide eyes. She looks every bit her brief 12 years. Her amber eyes flicker in the torchlight, wet with unshed tears.

Bellamy’s gaze is even harder to bear. He’s outnumbered and unarmed, but he stands firmly in front of Charlotte, putting himself in the path of danger, determined to keep the little girl safe. The same way he’d defended his sister countless times. The same way he’d defended Murphy when he needed it the most.

Murphy growls, low and quiet in his throat.

It’s not a challenge. It’s a furious concession.

“Fine.” He spits. “Talk.”

Clarke starts, surprised but only giving herself a moment to feel it. Then she starts to cajole.

“You wanted a trial, right? You wanted to do this the right way, the honorable way. We can still do that. We can do it together.”

Finn is nodding behind her, silent but supportive. Mbege and the boys at his back are stirring, unhappy with the new tact and eager to glut themselves on violence. And Bellamy… Bellamy is staring fixedly at him. It reminds Murphy of the long look they had shared prior to the hanging, prior to the older Blake speaking up in his defense and saving him. That look had been just as charged, but with a different emotion. The emotion in his eyes now is hope.

_Hope._ He’s looking at Murphy like he’s something special and full of promise, like he’s the sun peeking over the horizon after a long night. Like he’s something that Bellamy has been waiting for.

Despite the circumstances and the assorted company and the chill in the night air, the thought warms him. Fills him with a grudging gladness instead of a rage.

Somehow, impossibly, it feels like he’s doing the right thing.

“What are you doing? She’s right there-” Mbege begins, still frenzied from the headlong chase through the dark.

“Shut up.” Murphy says thickly. He doesn’t take his eyes off Bellamy, and Bellamy doesn’t look away.

“The trial. How do we do it?”

Clarke answers. “It’s a simple process. Apparently we appoint a judge, choose a jury, present the evidence. Then we decide on a punishment. A fitting punishment, not… _this_.”

_This_ doesn’t need to be elaborated on. Murphy is silent for a moment, pretending to mull it over, pretending the decision wasn’t made the moment he realized what it truly meant to Bellamy.

If this is the price of Bellamy’s safety, he’ll pay it. Murphy is used to hoarding every bit of life’s currency to himself, every ration point, every stolen moment. He hates to give things up, hates to relinquish them from his tight fists and wrathful heart.

But it’s Bellamy asking, all earnestness and parted lips. It’s the older boy who befriended him, who empowered him, who saved his life in ways big and small every day they’ve been on this damn planet. It’s the person Murphy cares for. He’ll meet any demand, count out any cost, if it means Bellamy keeps looking at him like this, like he’s worth something. If it means Bellamy is alive to look at him at all.

“Ok. That’s how we’ll do it.” Murphy doesn’t say what he wants to say, which is _For you, Bell_ but he hopes he’s communicating it through their shared look, gaze both soft and fond, incongruous in their bleak surroundings.

Bellamy lowers the arm he’s using to protect Charlotte, relaxing his stance in relief. The light reflecting off his brown eyes flickers as the other boys shift beside Murphy.

From somewhere just behind him, Mbege huffs out, “This is bullshit.”

“This is justice.” Clarke declares. “Charlotte will get what she deserves.”

“She deserves to _die_.”

“If that’s true… if that’s what a court decides…” Clarke lets it hang in the air unsaid.

Murphy knows it’s an empty promise. He doesn’t think for a second that Clarke will let the Hundred execute a young girl. He keeps quiet, however, and lets Mbege read whatever he wants in the statement.

“Let’s get back to camp.” That’s Finn’s suggestion from where he stands near Clarke, backing her up, lending her more authority. Authority that the other boys are finally acquiescing to, if the shuffling feet behind Murphy are any indication. “C’mon, Charlotte.”

The little girl begins to move away from the ledge, edging around Bellamy, who shifts to let her by. The movement jars Murphy out of the almost trance-like state he’s been in, eyes fixed on the older Blake.

The light around them dims as most of the boys turn to leave, beginning to pick their way through the trees and into the forest towards camp. Clarke sighs tiredly, turning to say something to Finn, who puts a hand on her arm.

The encroaching darkness makes Murphy bold.

“Charlotte.”

The little girl stops, looking up at him. Her eyes shine in the light of his lone torch.

“Did it work?” His question is met with confused silence, so he elaborates. “Did it work? Did you slay all of your demons?”

The light in the little girl’s eyes goes out all at once. Even in the near dark Murphy can see her face drop, her expression losing the bit of calm it had achieved and falling into obvious despair.

“No.” She says simply, heartbreakingly honest.

The word hangs between them for a moment, damning. And then Charlotte turns, moving quickly before anyone can react, angling away from the small group of teens and jumping off of the edge of the cliff and into the deeper dark of the chasm.


	7. Show No Mercy

The world, as callous and cruel as it always is, spins on.

Time doesn’t stop. The stars don’t extinguish. The torch in Murphy’s hand blazes on merrily, illuminating the suddenly smaller group of teens, all of whom are turned towards the edge of the cliff, a few of their arms extended as though to grab for the girl who was just occupying the now empty space.

“Charlotte-” Clarke whispers, deafeningly loud amidst the silent clutch of juvenile delinquents.

_No no nononono_ \- Murphy’s thoughts race.

Nearer to the ledge, Bellamy is staring vacantly after her. He takes a step forward, as though to follow, kicking a piece of gravel off of the shelf.

_**NONONO**_ Murphy’s body moves before he can further mentally articulate his horror, free hand shooting out to fist in the arm of Bellamy’s jacket, trying to anchor him in place and stop him from whatever it is he’s about to do.

Snarling, Bellamy rips his arm away.

“ **Don’t touch me**.” The older boy growls, teeth glinting in the firelight. He’s gone from shocked to enraged in an instant, eyes wrathful and wild. He turns away from the edge of the abyss towards the shorter boy.

Murphy can’t think far beyond the aghast mantra in his head but he dimly realizes that having Bellamy’s attention on him is both dangerous and yet still preferable to Bellamy following Charlotte to an untimely end.

“Charlotte…” Clarke says again, voice cracking. Spacewalker is touching her hesitantly, sliding his arms around her middle and pulling her close. She doesn’t resist, still stunned. The long haired boy lowers his face to her neck, closing his eyes, shuddering. A single tear leaks out of the corner of Clarke’s eye, rolling down her cheek and dripping off her jaw.

“Bellamy-” Murphy begins, without any idea of how to continue the sentence. He settles for repeating the name, the familiar syllables strained with dismay. “Bellamy, Bell-”

Bellamy is on him before he can move, fists tightening on the fabric of his jacket in a sickening imitation of Clarke’s and Finn’s embrace.

_This keeps happening_. Murphy’s thoughts sputter. _Why does this keep happening?_

Bellamy’s face is close to his, hot breath humid on his skin. His teeth are barred and his eyes are feral. Murphy’s stomach flips as something nameless clashes with fear within him.

Fear of Bellamy. His friend, his savior.

Bellamy shakes him, once, and Murphy gasps in pain as his ribs jostle. His injuries are still fresh and raw, exacerbated by the terrible excitement of the last day and night.

From this close, it’s impossible to miss the look of disgust in Bellamy’s brown eyes. The emotion travels over his entire face, wrinkling his forehead and turning down the sides of his mouth. It’s echoed in the sensation still swooping in Murphy’s stomach, nausea threatening to overtake him.

“Stop! Stop, you’re going to hurt him even worse-” That’s Clarke, pulling away from Spacewalker and addressing his assailant.

The words seem to strike Bellamy like a blow, because he abruptly lets go of his hold on the article of clothing. Unbalanced, Murphy tips backward, almost falling over onto the rocky ground. He catches himself at the last second, hissing between his teeth at the feel of his weight shifting, pulling at his sore muscles and thin skin stretched over fractured bones. The torch in his hand almost slips but he manages to keep it, just barely. The light plays over Bellamy’s features, highlighting the expressions of shock, then grief.

Bellamy turns away, moving towards the treeline. He puts his back to Murphy and takes a great shuddering breath that shakes his shoulders.

Clarke goes as if to follow him but hesitates, looking torn between the male leader and Murphy.

“I didn’t-” Murphy begins, feeling the totally unfamiliar urge to explain himself, if only to deflect blame onto anyone or anything else. “I didn’t mean to-”

Charlotte is dead. Her little body had tumbled down through the open air and landed, unseen, below. She was just right there in front of them, _right there_ , looking bereft but healthy, cheeks pink, amber eyes wet, suitably miserable but _alive_. And now she’s gone, lying broken somewhere in the dark.

Murphy wants to vomit but his stomach is too empty from missing dinner to chase Charlotte through the dark-

_God help me. I drove her to this. I herded her onto the cliff, I backed her up against the edge, I had to open my mouth and ask about her fucking demons-_

“Murphy! Murphy, you need to breathe.” Clarke says, voice low and urgent, repeating herself from earlier in the day. Her hands are on his shoulders and her blue eyes are all he can see.

He obeys her words and the burn in his lungs, sucking in a breath. The pain intensifies when his ribs creak, and the air explodes out of his mouth in a huff. Desperate, he tries again, and manages to hold the oxygen in his chest a bit longer. His head clears marginally, his field of vision widening again.

Finn is watching him behind Clarke’s shoulder, brown eyes holding pity and sorrow in equal measure. Bellamy is still facing the trees, shoulders hunched. Clarke takes the torch from his hand, passing it back to Finn and then lifting his arm. The breath leaves him again as his rib seems to scrape painfully against itself.

Clarke tuts. “You’ve aggravated your injuries. I’ll have to rewrap your chest. What happened here?” She reaches out to touch his cheek where a stray branch had struck it but stops herself before making contact, not wanting to hurt him. She’s going into healer mode, focusing entirely on someone else’s health and wellbeing. Murphy can only guess that it’s a way to concentrate on anything but what she’s feeling now, in the aftermath of Charlotte’s suicide.

Murphy doesn’t want to answer that question, because ‘I hurt myself while trying to hurt someone else’ doesn’t seem like an acceptable or adequate response. Instead he focuses on the first thing she said.

Almost every inch of him hurts. His nose is throbbing with each breath, along with his cracked rib and his abraded throat. There’s an ache behind his eyes, one of which is still slightly swollen, and he feels battered and bruised, inside and out. His body is practically screaming for rest and some kind of relief.

Despite that, Murphy pushes Clarke’s hand away from his face. Yet again in his dismal life, Murphy feels like he deserves the discomfort.

“I’m fine, Princess.” He means for it to be vicious but it just sounds flat, his voice hollow in his ears.

“You won’t be for long, if you don’t stop pushing yourself. You need to get back to camp and lay down. And _you_ -” Here she turns back to Bellamy, whose shoulders have continued to inch closer and closer to his ears, hunching into himself. “You need to help me think of something to tell our people.”

Bellamy’s form shakes like he’s chuckling to himself but the noise he makes has no mirth in it. “Tell them? I thought they deserved to know the truth.”

“No.” Clarke says quietly. “No, I was wrong before. The truth can be… dangerous. We can’t put our lives in the hands of blind justice, some impersonal laws that govern our people. And we can’t turn our power over to the mob, either, because we’ve seen how that ends. No, we need to take back control.”

“What does that mean? Who exactly would be in charge?”

“For now, the two of us.” Clarke makes a gesture between them that Bellamy catches as he turns back around, shoulders lowering just a bit, expression blank. Murphy knows that the nonchalance is a familiar act for the dark haired Blake, and that he’s probably feeling a multitude of emotions right now. He can’t quite tell which emotions those are, however, because Bellamy won’t look at him.

It’s probably for the best. In this moment Murphy feels the same way he did when he was just a kid, having watched his father jettisoned into the cold vaccuum of space, but now there’s no one to gather his smaller body close and croon comforts into his ear. He stands alone, easily excluded from the conversation occurring between Clarke and Bellamy.

“We can’t just let people live by ‘whatever the hell you want.’ When they do, this happens.” Clarke’s next hand movement encompasses the entire world around them, wordlessly indicating the horror of their time on Earth. “We have to make the rules. We have to be judge and jury, the ones who lay down the law and make the final decisions. We need to pass the sentences. Together.” Clarke looks earnest even in the near dark, her blue eyes as open and boundless as the sky. “At least, until the people on the Ark come down.”

Bellamy, who had been captivated by her words, looks shaken by this last statement. Rolling his shoulders uncomfortably, his eyes move past Clarke, past Finn, to the empty space where Charlotte should have been standing.

“Ok, Princess. Judge and jury. Someone’s got to be in charge. Might as well be us.”

Clarke nods, a bit relieved. Finn looks apprehensive. Murphy feels… He doesn’t know what he feels. He doesn’t know how to put it into words. He’d never prided himself on his vocabulary.

Stunned? Shocked? Horrified? Has a word even been invented yet for the new empty ache in his soul? It feels like a piece of the world has been stolen from him, ripped from his grasp and shredded before his eyes. It feels like something is missing, and always will be.

“So, how do we do this? What do we say about Charlotte? I figure we’ve got a few options…”

Murphy loses the thread of the conversation at some point, focused wholly on the way the world has warped and changed in an instant. Finn speaks up a few times, adding his voice to the argument, weighing in on the pros and cons of certain decisions. Murphy isn’t sure what he contributes, and doesn’t particularly care. The only thing that matters is the vacant space in the world, in his chest, and the new weight on his shoulders.

_I’ve done it. I’ve killed someone. It’s my fault, all over again._

Not just someone. A child. A little girl, an orphan like himself, a young kid alone in the world and plagued with demons.

“...it’s not like they can prove…”

She had brown hair that she kept in a braid and amber eyes that crinkled in the corners when someone made her laugh and a voice that was still high and sweet with youth.

“...might as well be honest…”

And now she was dead. Dead and done, body crumpled in a heap or splattered on the ground, loose and lifeless.

“...set a certain precedent…”

She’d never laugh again. She’d never smile and joke with one of the older kids, she’d never eat another meal, she’d never have a peaceful dream again.

“...settles it. We should get back to camp.”

The torch flares on the edge of his vision, blinding him, making him wince. Finn has moved closer, frowning at Murphy. He takes the lead, setting the pace back through the woods and towards the dropship and encircling settlement, fire held high in his hand to light the way.

Bellamy is next, then Clarke. Murphy has to make several attempts to follow before his body responds to his commands, moving jerkily, feet dragging on the stone.

_Dead. Charlotte is dead._

Unbidden, the image of Wells returns to him as it so often does, lying on a carpet of stained grass, slumped over, eyes accusing even in death. It’s not the same image that he encountered that fateful day. It’s been changed by the distance of time and the intensity of his emotions, altering to reflect the state of his disordered mind.

Wells’ head is turned towards him, eyes open, piercing in the fog of near memory. The hand with a full set of fingers is pointing at Murphy.

His heavy feet make contact with a tree root and Murphy stumbles, almost falling. The slight commotion makes Clarke turn, curious and concerned. Bellamy doesn’t deviate from his path, pushing further into the forest, leaving him behind.

With a quiet curse, Murphy tries to rouse himself from his near-stupor. The danger isn’t over. He’s in the woods, at night, on planet Earth, which turns out to be inhabited by Grounders of some sort, who want the Hundred gone, if their welcome package of a spear to the chest is any indication. He doesn’t have his torch, the only weapon is a knife slipped into his belt, and the teens he’s traipsing through the forest with are just as likely to leave him behind after… after what he did.

Stepping around a downed log, Murphy puts a hand against his injured ribs and lengthens his steps, trying to keep pace with the healthy and whole juvenile delinquents ahead of him.

It’s a long walk to camp. Clarke slows halfway there, shooting him a furtive look where he’s tripping through the undergrowth. She doesn’t explicitly help him, but she slows the pace until he can keep up. Finn seems to be always aware of her, stopping at obstacles or difficult junctions to help her pass, lifting the torch high to illuminate the area.

Bellamy, on the other hand, seems aware of nothing but what’s in front of him. He doesn’t stumble with exhaustion like Murphy. Instead he presses on, always forward, moving determinedly through leaves and brambles. He doesn’t spare Murphy a single glance.

The weight of Bellamy’s displeasure is almost as heavy as the absence of Charlotte.

They stop their trek on the edge of camp. Clarke turns to Murphy and says, “You shouldn’t be here for this. Wait for me in the dropship, I need to wrap your chest.”

Murphy doesn’t know exactly what’s going to be said about the latest death, having tuned out for most of the conversation, but he finds that he doesn’t care. It probably won’t be the truth.

_…and then Murphy bullied her into leaping off of a cliff, you should have seen it, she did a freestyle dive off the edge…_

Finn passes him the torch so he can find his way through the crowd forming. Clarke tells him to get some water boiling so she can disinfect the cuts on his face. And Bellamy… Bellamy refuses to look at him, speak to him, or acknowledge him in any way. Instead he stares resolutely into the press of bodies as kids spread the word of their not-quite-triumphant return.

Somehow, he makes it to the dropship, shoving his still lit torch into the hands of a waiting teenage guard. His last few steps past the shabby curtain are limping and labored, his battered body protesting every second of use.

The air in the dropship is cool and still. There are a few people sitting or leaning against the walls, but when they see him they rise and hurry past him, outside to where Bellamy and Clarke are sure to be waiting. It’s just as well. Murphy doesn’t really want company right now. Especially the company of a bunch of kids who clamored for his execution half a day ago. It’s better that he’s alone.

There’s a wet spot on his cheek, stinging the cut from the tree branch. He wipes at it angrily.

It’s _definitely_ better that he’s alone. He doesn’t need an audience for this.

Trembling in every limb, Murphy lets himself fall into the nearest hammock, turning onto his uninjured side, vacant eyes on the far wall that is half shadowed.

The fabric of the hammock holds him, pressing against him firmly and reassuringly. Still, the sensation can’t stop his eyes from seeing dark shapes in the play of light against the bare waiting canvas of the dropship.

He sees Wells. It’s always Wells, lately, waiting for him in every dark crevice or shadowed nook, his dark eyes open as they had not been in death, his arms splayed but one hand pointing with silent accusation. There’s blood crusted against his face and still seeping out of his neck, the wound looking fresh and open as if new. His lips are closed but somehow Murphy can hear his voice, ringing with certainty, _This is your fault. This is all your fault._

They’re the same words his mother had slurred out before she died from drink. They’re the same words Murphy has heard as an undercurrent to every conversation since then. They’re the words that echo in his own head eternally, repeating endlessly behind every other thought and feeling.

The words had occasionally changed tone, especially recently. When he heard the familiar lines _your fault, your fault, you did this, you caused this_ lately, it was when Bellamy smiled. It was when Bellamy flirted with him and Murphy tried to pretend he wasn’t flustered, and when Bellamy laughed at a dumb joke, his open smile white against his tan skin.

Now, laying in this hammock, he can hear the words in Bellamy’s voice, this time angry and damning. _Your fault, your fault_.

It was his fault, wasn’t it? His fault for getting sick and getting his father killed, his fault for not being enough to keep his mother alive after that loss, his fault for threatening Wells and mocking Clarke and pissing on Connor and driving Charlotte into the abyss.

He’s supposed to be boiling water and ripping up cloth for bandages and otherwise preparing himself for medical care, but Murphy doesn’t move, the void in his chest reflected by the void in his eyes, staring emptily at the grotesque and ghostly visage his mind has conjured.

Unable to bear it for another moment, he closes his eyes and retreats into rest.


End file.
